Safety Suit
by MissSardonic
Summary: To escape Asgardian justice, Loki assumes an alternate form and a new identity. Now a resident of Earth, he must evade Eudorian bounty hunters contracted by the Chitauri and simultaneously remain anonymous to the Avengers Initiative. But what can he do when he is unceremoniously rescued by none other than Captain America himself from three such fiends?
1. Episode 1 Test Drive

She enters the old saloon, sparsely furnished and darkly lit to set the sullen mood. The air is fragrant with cologne, dirt, and beer. There are two old televisions above the liquor shelves and a dusty jukebox in the far corner. The bar is dotted with several high round tables with mismatched chairs.

She wears a sleeveless jade dress, cut low enough along the neckline and high enough on the thigh to be notably licentious. The hem of her dress is trimmed with silver studs. Her bodice is framed by long spiraling waves of jet black hair. Her heavy black suede boots reach clear up to her thighs, the wedged platforms putting her just over six feet tall. Her curvaceous hips are wreathed with a stout, seamed silver belt. She wears a similar necklace of smaller silver squares and dangling earrings. Her black leather jacket is padded in the shoulders causing them to jut out slightly. She scans the bar with vivacious green eyes and finds her quarry seated at the counter. He is alone. She approaches. Her confidence is inhuman.

"Pardon me," she begins. Her velvety voice is uncommonly pleasant to hear. The brawny figure turns towards her, fixing her with sad blue eyes. His chiseled jaw clenches reflexively. His blond hair is parted towards the side and neatly swept back in an old fashioned wave. He wears a plaid button-down and flat ironed, pleated khakis. His brown bomber jacket accentuates the build in his shoulders. "Captain America, isn't it?" she prompts disarmingly, as though she does not know his identity already. Her voluptuous lips curl into a sultry smile.

He smiles back. "Yes ma'am. Guilty," he answers bashfully, fingering the jagged cut of his crystal glass.

As she slowly twirls a strand of hair around her finger, "I apologize for disturbing you. You see, I saw you on television after that terrible incident in Manhattan." She touches her collarbone. "You were incredible." Her eyes dart to the counter, lips pursing uncertainly. "I wonder, is there room for two?"

Seeming slightly unsettled, as though shaking himself from a stupor, he stands and pulls out the stool beside his. He motions to it generously. "Of course."

She smirks victoriously and sits down, kicking her leg up to cross it over the other. He sits too. She drops her clutch on the counter and orders a glass of peach brandy on ice. The bartender fixes it in a jade tinted lowball. "Steve Rogers," he introduces, extending a broad hand towards her.

"Lola Lancaster," she replies, gently taking his hand and giving it a deceptively tender squeeze.

"It's a real pleasure, Miss Lola."

"Likewise, Captain." With impeccable posture, she curls her arms on the edge of the counter, enhancing certain things any man cannot help but notice. "The Man out of Time…" she swoons. "You know, I think it very admirable for anyone to fight the way you do, and forego what you have. To exude such devotion and give so freely to God and country... You should be very proud." She takes a careful sip of her drink, slanting one dark eyebrow expectantly.

He shakes his head, fisting his own glass of whiskey on the rocks. "Just doin' my job, ma'am. There are plenty of good soldiers out there who do exactly the same thing on a daily basis."

"Oh. I highly doubt that. But your modesty becomes you." She chuckles coquettishly, accustomed to different reactions from less humble men. "So… those others you fought alongside… do you really form some sort of team? Everyone is calling you The Avengers - like our own personal squadron of superheroes." Her eyes sparkle excitedly.

"Yeah, I guess that is what we call ourselves. I am afraid I can't tell you much more than that though. We're pretty much restricted to what the press leaks. Hearsay and all that… Everything else is classified."

She blinks, feigning surprise. "Oh." Immediately, "So it is a government initiative?"

"Yes," he hurriedly corrects himself, "I mean… we work for the good of the country. Naturally, we obey government leaders like The Commander and Chief. He's the bossman."

She bats her luscious lashes and hooks her hair behind her ear. "Naturally. I understand." She backs off as not to instigate cause for suspicion. "So, what are you doing in a place like this?"

He shrugs. "Hankering for a bit of the old times, I guess."

She pouts sympathetically, "Nostalgic?"

He nods. "And I know it does no good. I just feel out of place in the modern world, even with modern people most days."

"I imagine it is hard to carry on a conversation with anyone when everything mundane to them is so unfamiliar to you." She watches as he swirls the ice in his glass with musical clinks, managing a strangled smirk. She touches his arm. Encouragingly, "But look how well you're doing now. None would be the wiser."

He shrugs it off. "If that doesn't give me away, my clothes will do the trick. Seems my taste is a little outdated."

"Nonsense. I think you look sharp." She smiles warmly and winks. They laugh together for a moment. "If it was not already evident, my parents were much the same way."

He turns on his stool to better face her and she knows she has him. "I definitely recognize the name Lola."

She nods. "My mother wore polka dot dresses and aprons trimmed with lace unto the bitter end. My father owned a drive-in cinema."

"Cinema?"

"Move theater," he smiles.

His eyes light up. "I remember those too. You know what I really miss about those good old days?"

"Those days of soda and pretzels and cheers?" she smiles radiantly, watching his smile grow when he recognizes the song. "What do you miss, Steve?"

His smile slants, giving it more of a wistful look. "Honestly? How dang cheap everything was. Nickelodeons, 5 cent cokes… in the classy glass bottles, none of that aluminum stuff, full service gas stations... I miss the general friendliness of the world and the people in it. Even the air feels different here…" He continues to talk, but Lola's attention is suddenly drawn to the door. Three stocky figures push through and enter the bar. They loom imposingly, their close shaven skulls sporting similar swastika tattoos. Their size and ink however, are not what alarm her. They all wear the same purple medallion on a dark chain around their necks. The yellow flecks in their eyes glow abnormally in the soft light.

"Oh dear," she mutters. This is not part of her ingenious plan. She suspects these men come from offworld. Roger's presence puts her in a terrible predicament. She did not expect bounty hunters so soon after her escape from Asgard and her persistent "brother". Word travels much too quickly these days. Her test session with Rogers will have to be postponed.

"What's wrong?" Steve asks, frowning.

She faces him, adopting a blithe smile. "Oh, nothing. I didn't realize how late the hour was. I should take my leave. It really was a pleasure, Captain." She touches his knee. "I'm sure we'll chat again soon." In effort to retain the authenticity of her cover, she cannot depart as she normally would. She quickly collects her bag, being careful to conceal her face by feigning interest in a television program. She makes for the back hall, framed by restrooms and a back door to the outside for the staff in need of cigarette breaks.

Although she is galactically renowned for her impressive fabrications, Rogers is not buying it. He turns towards the door and watches as the three men advance in her wake across the groaning wooden planks.

When she rounds the corner, Lola starts to mutter a spell, but before she finishes, there is a meaty hand on her shoulder. It wheels her around and shoves her against the wall, rocking the sign hanging above the Ladies restroom. In spite of the jarring bump, she is nearly ready to knee him.

The bounty hunter says in another more guttural tongue, /You're coming with-/, but Rogers lays into him before he can conclude. Lola, too surprised to lower her knee, blinks. Her assailant lays in a limp heap on the floor at her feet. Steve situates himself in the midst of the cluster, standing over the fallen fiend, strategically placing himself in front of her. The other two snarl in rage and advance on them.

After the abrupt termination of her less than consensual connection with Barton, she seeks an alternate source of inside information. Rogers seems like the ideal candidate – unattached and isolated by his old fashioned ideals in an otherwise contemporary age. Her talents with manipulation make him an easy target. Her plan is perfect. At least, it_ was_ perfect until these hunters unceremoniously spoil everything.

Lola is plainly stunned, the irony of it all leaving a foul taste in her mouth. Only her divine grace saves her when Steve grabs her wrist and pulls her swiftly through the back door and down the squat loading platform into the night. "Come on! Keep your head down."

Her wits wade through the riotous rush of her thoughts. She stammers for a moment and accidentally fills her lungs with the fetid air from the dumpster. Her expression and mood sour. "I most definitely do not require _your_ assistance!" she shouts, trying to pry her wrist from his iron grasp. She wants to get away from here without creating a scene.

Rogers is too busy pulling her towards a rusted orange Dodge Challenger. "Ma'am, I believe you may be too close to the situation to see things clearly."

Lola balks and scoffs as she hurries along behind him. Indignantly, "Ridiculous! You do not understand. Unhand me immediately!" When he does not, she plants her feet, incensed. "I will not be ignored!"

Rogers hooks his steely fingers under the catch of the trunk, not bothering with the keys jingling in his jacket pocket in his haste. He wrenches the compartment open and seizes a circular disk from the darkness. He wheels around, tugging her behind him just in time to deflect a crackling plasma ball with his shield. The second hunter fires a blast from a monstrous slug gun. That shot hits the rear bumper, simultaneously knocking them aside and blowing a hole in the vehicle. She drops her clutch in the commotion.

"Now it's on. I loved that car!" Rogers regains his footing and hurls his shield at the duo.

The stouter skinhead lifts his hand... and catches it. He grins contemptuously.

Lola watches from the corner of her eyes as Roger's eyes widen in shock. He realizes these men are not normal thugs. He cants his broad body towards Lola, clasping her by the elbow. "I don't know what sort of trouble you're in Miss Lancaster, but you better go quick!" he insists, urging her away. "Run, I'll hold them off."

Although the thought of Captain America protecting her is nearly too paradoxical to entertain with a straight face, Lola does not require him to reiterate his courageous order. This is one command from a "mortal" that she does not mind following. She pivots and bolts, crossing the parking lot towards a chain link fence. She takes a short moment to commend herself for not donning the glossy stilettos she thought might be more aesthetically appealing. The boots are a more practical choice after all.

To maintain her cover so she may use it at a later date, she must be out of the Captain's sight before she can call upon her abilities, which makes everything most inconvenient. Preserving her identity is absolutely essential during these times as an interplanetarily wanted felon.

However, regardless of her predicament, she fully intends to continue being her mischievous self.

She jumps up and hurtles over the fence into a storage yard. Adjoining units line both sides of a rough asphalt street. Beyond the yard, she can see a construction site and the skeleton of a new office building. She should be able to lose the hunters in there.

One of them is tailing her, having apparently penetrated Roger's line of defense. She thinks him even more incompetent than before. She can hear the rattle of the fence and hard footfalls on the ground, but she does not dare look back. Instead, she breaks into a sprint. Her heart races. There is another fence ahead of her, but it is made of wrought iron bars, spiked nefariously at the tips. Deeming her distance adequate, she thrusts her arm out and flings a pale blue volt at the padlock. It instantaneously freezes. She shoulders through the gate and shoves it aside, breaking the lock. It swings open with a piercing screech and clangs hard against the fence.

Dodging orange barrels and construction equipment, she careens across the dirt yard, barely making the jump over a wide, steep trench in the ground for the septic system. She lands on the opposite side, casting a breathless glance over her shoulder. The hunter is closing in. Her eyes flash and she uses magic to pitch several hulking orange barrels at him. He evades most of them, but they do slow him down.

She ascends the short step up to the concrete foundation of the building and dashes onward over the stone. She can hear his scraping steps behind her. She weaves through the steel beams, trying to avoid any loose gravel. God or not, one wrong step will mean the end. Her body is light and her legs agile, but despite her fleet footed abilities, the gap between them is steadily shrinking. Whatever his birth species is, it is uncannily fast, faster than she is. She veers leftward and locks her hands around a metal beam. Using the considerable momentum built up from the run, she swings around the beam and slams her heels into his chest. The hard impact rattles her bones, but she manages to knock him down. She lands in a crouch, stands, and turns to run. Instead, she falls with a fierce smack of her palms to the concrete. His hand is fastened around her ankle.

/You think you know pain?/ echoes a malicious voice in her head. Her own fear chokes her. The Chitauri will tear her limb from limb. She cannot be caught. She MUST NOT be caught.

She flips over and kicks up, delivering a vicious blow to his jaw. His head snaps back, but he does not relinquish his hold. He reels her in, dragging her over the rough ground. She reaches into her coat and produces a small knife. She flips it into an offensive hold and slashes at him. He catches her wrist. His grasp, like steel pincers, is so uncomfortable that she drops the weapon. It falls just out of reach. She squirms and lashes out in desperation, entangling her free hand in the medallion around his neck. Hoping she can use it to choke him, she pulls harder than she means to. The links snap. The medallion clatters to the floor.

Her assailant's face begins to ripple, his body contorting violently. In the madness, he lets her go. She crawls backwards quickly. The medallion serves to disguise his identity. Soon, she will see his true face. The hunter is changing rapidly, growing, his body distorting, ripping through his clothes. Spikes lining his spine erupt from his back. His human face merges with something more reptilian. He is Eudorian, a cousin species to the Chitauri. She does not stay to see more. She scrambles to her feet and flees.

Lola turns to fling an occasional volt of magic back at the creature, hoping it will strike him on Allfather's good graces, which she has unfortunately fallen far from.

/There is no where you can hide from us,/ the same bloodthirsty voice threatens in her memory. The flashbacks are doing nothing to buoy her confidence or curb her terror.

The dark mass dodges her volts. The magic blasts rebound and hit support beams, freezing them, rendering them brittle beneath the weight of the building. She races on.

Rarely if ever is Lola afraid. The unfamiliar feeling is making her act irrational and erratically. She can hear the alien creature charging behind her. From the sound of his thunderous pursuit, he is gigantic. Lola concentrates and projects doppelganger images that splinter off, running in opposite directions. Her hunter is not deterred by such trickery. He is locked onto her. She can hear support beams and concrete pillars crumble as he smashes through them. The earth rumbles beneath her feet, unsettling her steps. She can feel warm breath on the backs of her legs. He is too close.

/Thor,/ she wants to shout. But she doubts Thor will aid her now in light of the numerous evils she has committed, covert relations notwithstanding. Her last attempt on Odin's life, just after her escape, will not go overlooked. She can hear great creaking as the unstable building groans above her and the rumble of more falling masonry in the distance.

She leaps, clutching an overhanging beam and hoisting herself up in the same motion. The fierce snap of jaws just barely flanks her feet. She jumps again just as the creature barrels up through her bar, capturing the second overhead beam. She hauls herself up, scampers aside, and presses her back tightly to the vertical support. Below, she can see the creature leaping up with gnashing jaws, trying to scale the beams to reach her perch. Luckily, his muscular legs so deft at running are not built for climbing. This position will work to her advantage, but not for long.

Her normally clever mind is racing, grasping wildly at plausible courses of action. She throws more volts at him. Seeing him up close, she realizes his body is covered with strange scales, reflecting the starlight. Her attacks ricochet off the plated armor. This creature has been specially selected for her case. Enraged, he roars. The Eudorian, maddened from frustration, begins to rush headlong into the same vertical support beam below.

The bolts holding the horizontal beam in place rattle loose. She tries to brace herself, but her feet are slipping. She cannot obtain a solid enough foothold to jump again. The beam gives way. The creature leaps up. Her fall towards his waiting jaws is short lived. She is jerked to a stop. His jagged mouth snaps shut a breath away from her boot. Lola looks up.

Rogers holds her suspended by the wrist, squatting on the beam above her.

She is filled with a mix of relief and rage, but she has little time to muddle through the conflicting feelings. More beams are falling around them. He hoists her up and loops an arm around her waist before she can protest. The entire world quakes violently. Below, one of the structure's plummeting beams strikes the hunter and he yelps shrilly, dazed as he stumbles aside. Soon after, he is struck with another that impales him through the neck. He lays unmoving on the ground.

"Hang on," Rogers warns, a second before he jumps down. They land on the concrete floor and stoop low. He pulls her as close as he can, bent over her, holding his shield above him. Noise and dust rise around them in thick clouds. The riotous booming culminates in a final hellish crescendo. Much to her chagrin, she tucks her knees in and presses against him, squeezing her eyes shut, her hands knotted in the fabric of his shirt.

The dust is settling. It is quiet. Lola opens her eyes and sees that they are surrounded by debris. She glances up. Roger's shield is the only thing impeding the crushing weight of several steel beams and concrete blocks, balanced precariously above him. His arm shakes slightly, clearly exerting all of his strength to hold them up. Lola gestures discretely with her hand. The tower tumbles aside. Rogers opens his eyes, his noble brow beaded with sweat. He is covered in scrapes, dust, and chalk. She imagines she looks no better.

Still catching his breath, he looks at her. She stares back at him, suddenly hardening her expression, fixing him in a deliberate glare. Realizing she still clings to him, she quickly releases her hold, as though she touched something unpleasant. She wonders if he saw her using magic. She does not dare to breathe.

His brow knits together, displaying a nauseating level of concern. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Quite," she quips curtly, taking to brushing and batting the dust off her boots. She can feel his eyes lingering on her, as though they burn. He says nothing about her abilities, so she reasons he believes she is still only a civilian.

"… You're crying," he says too gently. Lola recoils, disgusted by the outrageous accusation. She touches her cheek suspiciously. It is damp. He is right. She promptly wipes her face, swallowing her shock, appalled at herself and embarrassed beyond belief. "It's alright now," he reassures, as though the pathetic statement rectifies everything. Rogers stands and helps her to her feet. She shies away from him again, adjusting her dress accordingly. She begins fixing her hair, twisting it over her shoulder, attempting to comb her fingers through the hapless mess of tangles.

Frazzled, "That was the pinnacle of stupidity on your part. Why would you risk your life for anyone you've known but five minutes?" The question is purely rhetorical, but to her surprise, he has an answer.

Rogers reaches behind him for something tucked away under his coat in his belt. He extends her dusty clutch. He smirks charmingly, quirking a confident eyebrow. "You forgot your purse."


	2. Episode 2 Civic Duty

Her disbelief is etched across her face. She stands poised on the treacherous brink between laughing aloud and screaming at him. Finally, her expression thaws, sharp features softening. She sighs, the tension leaving her body. Weariness crashes over her. She shakes her head. "Valiant Soldier of Fortune, your devotion is truly blind." She accepts the purse.

Rogers looks confused at her peculiar way of thanking him and the bizarre change in her personality, but she can see he does not let it interfere with the mission at hand. His guard is on the rise again. "Why were they after you?"

She shrugs. Wryly, "They really wanted my boots, I suppo-"

Steve seizes her arm. "Why?" he repeats more urgently. She jerks away and folds her arms resentfully, rapping her fingers against her bicep. "Sorry. Look, I can't just leave you until we figure this out. Wouldn't be right. I need to report it right away. May I… um…" He clears his throat and steels his expression. "May I borrow your cell phone?" he asks authoritatively, extending his hand, palm up.

Lola's jaw works behind pursed lips, scrutinizing him. "You do not possess your own?"

He is trying not to look sheepish. "I'm not the greatest with technology."

"I carry no such device," she informs him stridently. When he looks less than convinced, she opens her purse so he can examine the contents for himself. Rogers drops his hand and lets it hang limp at his side. He appears momentarily defeated.

He inclines his chin bravely. "Then I am taking you to someone who will definitely have the means to contact HQ." He situates his shield over his shoulder. "Don't worry. You are now under my protection."

"Oh, the irony," she mumbles. She forces a thankful smile, clasps her hands, and bats her eyes. "My hero. I feel so much better."

Though she expects him to take offense, he raises his hand, completely serious as he replies, "No time for that, ma'am. Your safety is my first priority. We'll get to the bottom of this. Follow me."

With his back turned, she is safely out of his line of vision. Lola sinks into her palm and rubs the pale temples of her skull. Her head aches, but not from the battle. The reality of his rescue is slowly setting in. Rogers is too consumed by duty, too blinded with chivalry to consider the validity of her subtle earlier warnings. She realizes that Steve, like Thor, is a creature of instinct, not intellect… and it is the fact that she is the damsel in distress that so rouses the presiding protector in his soul. He is genuinely righteous, genuinely loyal, and genuinely naïve… much like a well trained family pet. A little conditioning of her own, and she could mold him into something useful indeed.

This also could very well result in her favor. It is what she was after, though it looks considerably different than she originally imagined. This alternative form might prove more useful than she realized. Her cover is about to be tested and tried on a much deeper level. She will need to think on her feet, assuming she can restrain herself from killing Captain America and his romanticized ideals, bloated with gallantry. Above all else, she must keep her real identity under wraps. It would not do to let the Avengers know that Lola Lancaster is really Loki Laufeyson.

They trek back across the construction yard, picking their way through the debris. Lola adamantly refuses to accept his help, meandering along behind him gracefully. They approach the wrought iron gate and suddenly she is reminded of the freezing spell she used. Should he see the aftermath, it could raise suspicion. She hastens to his side and clasps his hand. Her distraction is effective.

"Thank you for rescuing me," she gushes, her eyes darting to the padlock as they pass through the gate. Rogers does not notice. "And for returning my valuables. You were very brave to defend me the way you did." She does not apologize for being short with him, as Lola, rarely as she threatens, makes real apologies even less frequently.

Rogers accepts her gratitude with a dutiful grin. "All in a day's work. We're not out of the woods quite yet though. We're going to have to find a ride. I don't suppose we could take your car?"

Lola scrambles for an excuse. "I took the bus." She smiles and bats her eyes girlishly.

They come to the back lot of the saloon, which is spotted with blast marks and broken glass. One of the hunters lays immobile on the ground, a gash in his head leaking what looks to be black fluid onto the pavement. Lola cringes in revulsion. This is proving to be a messy business.  
They enter the bar through the back door and Lola is slightly unsettled when she does not see the limp figure of the third hunter on the floor. She glances around. He is gone.

The owner of the establishment is scratching his head. His hair, white as newfallen snow, is half hidden by a slanted cowboy hat. The salted white and grey of his beard is another testament to his age. He is thin and fragile looking, clad in an old sweat stained button up and trousers with uneven suspenders. His back is slightly bent against a lifetime of hard labor. His confusion is wiped clean from his face when he notices the emblem on Roger's shield. He eyes him intently, with wonder that surpasses Lola's understanding. "Is it really you, Cap?" he asks with the gravel of time in his voice.

Rogers nods. "Affirmative. I apologize for any damage done to your establishment. You have my word, I will more than compensate you for any losses."

"Sonny, any damage you do to this dump is only going to make me famous. Wouldn't dream of changing a thing." He smiles. Lola wishes he hadn't when she notices the state of his sparse yellowing teeth.

Rogers seems undaunted, even happy. She does not understand it. "I appreciate that, sir."

"You two look like you been through Hell." The canyons of his wrinkled brow deepen. He shakes his head. "I knew from the moment them skinheads walked in that they was trouble. Did you get um?"

"Yes sir."

"Good man. Anything else I can do ya for?"

Roger clears his throat. "Well… I need to get this lady to a safehouse." Lola rolls her eyes discreetly and folds her arms. "I was wondering if maybe I could borrow your vehicle."

He rubs his chin. "I reckon I wouldn't be doin' my civic duty to my country if I didn't lend my wheels to the Captain. Thing is, Sonny, I don't have one of them fancy automobiles." He raises a shaky finger. "I got something better!"

The older man leads them around through the parking lot towards a tin building, the roof slightly bowed from the rain and weather. He bends down and tries to pry the sliding door up from the ground. He puts a hand on his back and groans, stepping back with a wry frown. "Would you mind?" he laughs, thumbing towards the garage. Rogers pulls it up and locks it in place with little trouble.

Inside, leaning against a rotting workbench, is an old, faded motorbike that might have been a dark shade of hazel once. Lola gawks at it in disbelief, thinking it looks as streetworthy as it does seaworthy.

"My old man got it for me just after my time in Nam," he explains. "That beauty got me everywhere… Took my late wife and I on our first date. I know she don't look like much now, but she'll get you where you need to go, on my honor." He drops the rusty keys into Rogers' palm. Lola is still staring, unblinking, wondering why anyone in his right mind would so highly acclaim such a piece of scrap.

When the time comes to board the rickety transport, she is more than apprehensive. Rogers sits astride the dusty seat, his broad hands around the wide handlebars. Her clutch is once again tucked into his belt. The look suits him somehow, but then again she attributes that to his ancient appearance. She glances down at her dress and realizes the tight fabric is too constricting to allow her the same flexibility. She unceremoniously fists the fabric stretched over the skin of the side of her thigh, and pulls. The rip creates a slit, which should permit her a wider range of motion. She ignores the old man's slightly shocked expression, his bushy eyebrows ascending halfway up his forehead. She approaches the bike and swings her leg over the side, securing it on the anterior foot pedals. The brief case containing what she assumes to be Rogers' uniform is lashed to the back platform. He had doublebacked to retrieve it from the trunk of his car moments ago.

"Here," Rogers prompts, handing her his shield. "Fit your arm through the sling. It will protect your back." She does as she is told. The disk is surprisingly light for how durable it is. Beneath her, the bike sputters and grumbles drowsily. She adopts a surly expression.

"One more thing," the old man interjects, taking a pistol out from the elastic hem of his trousers. He makes sure it is loaded and hands it to Rogers who tucks it away into his belt.

"Thank you," Rogers says sincerely, a picture of nerve.

The old man flits his hand through the air. "No. Thank you. Never thought I'd have Captain America knocking on my door. It's an honor."

"I'll return your possessions to you as soon as I am able."

"I don't doubt it, Sonny. I don't doubt it for a minute."

"Whom do I ask for when I return?"

"Jack Sullivan. Sully, for short. Good luck to you." He smiles and sends them off with a wave.

"Better hang on ma'am," Rogers warns. Lola pauses momentarily and then links her slender fingers into the loops of his khakis, touching him in the least possible way. She inclines her chin haughtily and watches Rogers shrug. He suddenly floors the gas, sending a spray of dirt out from the back tire. The bike shoots forth and Lola would have gone sliding off the end had she not instantly roped her arms around his midsection. She glowers at him, though he takes no notice, and entertains the idea that he did it purposefully. They cross the parking lot and follow the dirt path to the main road, taking a sharp turn that nearly unseats her again. She squirms up and presses tight to him, ignoring the way this position hikes her skirt higher. She is annoyed, but maintains her composure.

"What is our destination?" she asks over the hum of the engine and the whip of the wind.

"Stark Tower," Rogers replies. While he does not sound angry, he does not sound thrilled about it either. This being New York, Stark is the closest contact in range. His lingering distain for his tenuous companion does not escape her notice. This is getting out of hand, she realizes. Her anxiety spikes. She is able to fool Rogers, but Stark could be a different story. She steels herself and starts preparing for possible questions and plausible answers, rehearsing various scenarios.

In the midst of her mental fugue, she catches a flash of light from the corner of her eye. The towering streetlight they pass explodes in a flurry of fire, the concrete base awash in red flame. Lola wheels around to look over her shoulder.

"We've got company," Rogers announces after a quick glance in the circular mirror that juts up from the handlebars. Behind them, the third skinhead hunter is in hot pursuit. He has his own method of transportation, the futuristic hovercraft making their motorbike seem all the more archaic. The bike shutters unreliably and backfires out of the exhaust pipe. A piece of the dented covering falls off and clatters on the asphalt behind them.

"… I hope that wasn't important," Rogers pipes up.

"Why must you insist on accepting the help of a sentimental old fool? Mass transit is readily available for a reason!" she snaps.

Before Rogers can pose a rebuttal, the hunter fires again. This time, the shot rebounds off the shield and hits a parked car on the side of the road, rocketing it up from the ground. Rogers grits his teeth. With elevated sarcasm, "I hate asking a sophisticated lady like yourself to do this, but-"

Lola reaches around his waist and extracts the small pistol from his belt. She cocks it and shrugs the shield down her arm. "With pleasure." As she twists towards their assailant, the gun begins to change, undergoing a magical upgrade. It expands and elongates, white spidering veins crystallizing along the barrel that is blushing blue. It is an elegant weapon, the original shell at the mercy of her imagination. Its weight far exceeds which normal human hands can bear, let alone suspend from one arm. She pulls the trigger. A blue blast explodes from the barrel, launching at the hunter at an alarming pace. He barely dodges it, the blast sailing leftward and striking a storefront down the street, instantaneously engulfing it in an impenetrable ice shield.

"What was that?" Rogers asks, glancing back slightly. "Did you get him?"

Brackishly, "Keep your eyes on the road. I'll not perish from vehicular negligence."

She feels him tense, the steel muscles in his body coiling against the sting of her tone. She wonders if the handle pegs are bent from the force of his grip. She relents. He speaks firmly, "We need to avoid civilian causalities. I think I opt for your plan after all." With a violent lurch, he turns the bike to the right and coasts down the stairwell into the subway. She tightens her hold around his waist. The jostling descent nearly rattles her teeth from her skull. She suppresses the urge to shoot him next and concentrates on the hunter.

They pass through a scattered, screaming crowd, the underground system not as congested in this part of the city. Rogers vaults over the ledge of the railway, veers left, and races down the tunnel. The firearm has recharged. Evenly spaced lights flash above them, causing a strobe effect that wreaks havoc with Lola's vision, making her doubt her aim. She fires again, barely missing him, slicking the tracks behind them with hazardous glaciers. She hopes at least some humans might expire during her otherwise unproductive evening.

The hunter fires again. Rogers leans right, tilting the bike just enough to dodge the blast, which strikes the wall ahead. A shower of rocks and fire follows. Rogers nearly loses control of the bike, which swerves precariously for a moment before emerging unscathed. Their faces are darkened from the heat of the flare. Fed up, Lola turns, readies the gun a third time, aims, and fires. The shot flies true, striking the Eudorian in the chest. He crashes instants later and his frozen form shatters in a spray of ice shards.

Lola's wish for mortal carnage is dashed when Rogers pulls the emergency alarm on their way out of the subway, shutting the system down with a single red lever. Curse his diligence… Saturated with adrenaline and parched for safety, they enter Manhattan Island and putter along towards Stark Tower.


	3. Episode 3 The Flare of Heroism

Now that they are out of harm's way, the mood is considerably less tense. Far, far away from the perfidious motorbike, Lola resumes her kinder mannerisms. Rogers slowly warms to her again, but he is still edgy and vigilant, on the cusp of constant action. The two of them cross the gated courtyard, skirting around the fountain, and climb the marble steps to the soaring main entrance to the grand tower. They pass a bellman and valet who greet them with dignified nods. Lola can hear a dull commotion inside the building. Rogers, his briefcase under his arm and his shield in the same hand, rings the bell.

Stark answers the door, clad in his Iron Man attire, complete with an expensive glass of Champaign, which he holds carefully between two metal fingers. His suit has been polished and shines ostentatiously.

Stark smiles solicitously. "Welcome to the grand opening of the new and improved, fully refurbished and fabulous Stark Tower." He takes inventory of their ruined attire. "I see you've been… busy. Who are you supposed to be? Dumpster Boy and Trailer Girl?" Lola purses her lips, but she is somewhat amused by his loose and easy arrogance. He bears a more vulgar resemblance to Thor in that aspect. Her twisted heart stirs. She longs to see him again. She quickly suppresses the sentiment.

Rogers stands ready. "Tony, we need to use your phone. I have an urgent message for SHIELD."

/Party Rock!/ the muffled surround sound system announces from inside. "Can't it wait? This is my jam."

Rogers frowns and motions towards Lola. "This woman's life could be in grave danger."

Stark eyes her somewhat lewdly. "That's convenient. Is that what you say about every girl you bring home?"

Roger's jaw works behind the aggravated line of his lips, but he retains his dutiful composure. "She is being pursued by extraterrestrials."

"Good cover. Did her parents buy it?" Rogers looks ready to lunge at him. Red anger bleeds into his face. Stark raises his hands. "Seriously though. Come in and enjoy yourselves. I was worried you didn't get the invite."

Rogers mumbles something that sounds like 'I didn't', but lapses back to the original subject. "I do not think attending a gala open to the public is appropriate under the circumstances."

"Hey. Easy Capsicle. She's in a house full of superheroes. I have the upmost confidence in you and your tights. Go put your spangles on. This party's just getting warmed up." Rogers looks less than convinced, his face still slightly flushed from frustration. He fists his hands tightly. Stark bends his arm and offers Lola his elbow. "My lady." With a flirtatious smirk, Lola takes his arm. He turns and leads her away.

"Ha-ha," Rogers retorts mirthlessly while he stands at the door, elevating his voice enough to be heard in their wake.

Stark ignores him. A tall, slender woman in a long white gown excuses herself from a small congregation of businessmen, some in costume, to meet them in the hallway. Her strawberry blonde hair is secured in a crown of spirals. Before she can voice her apparent confusion, Stark says, "It seems Captain America's date could use a change of clothes."

The woman's eyebrows jump up. "Steve has a date?"

"I know. Shocking, right?"

"Actually-" Lola begins, relinquishing her hold on his arm.

"This is…" He rolls his hand, trying to prompt her to finish his sentence, as he forgot to accrue that pertinent piece of information.

The woman rolls her eyes and shakes her head hopelessly. She adopts a pleasant smile. "Hello. I'm Pepper," she intercedes cordially, extending her hand to Lola.

"Lola," she replies, accepting the gesture accordingly, her lips laced with a sincere smirk.

"It's a pleasure," Pepper says.

"Lola," Stark repeats. "Spunky. Alright. Well, you ladies go get to know one another. I'm going to get my shuffle on." The mask of his suit flips up and pieces itself together, the eyes glowing. He nods to them and heads into the crowd.

"I'm sorry about that," Pepper apologizes, leading Lola towards a spiraling stairwell.

"It's quite alright. Stark's reputation precedes him."

"I'm glad you were prepared," Pepper laughs. Lola chuckles too. The music gets quieter. Lola notices the paintings and other art pieces that line the hall. She reasons Pepper has everything to do with them, as Stark clearly lacks the interest for such highly cultured taste. Pepper's inquisitive voice disrupts her thoughts. "So what happened?"

Lola interprets the question as referring to her disheveled appearance. "We encountered some inclement conditions on the way," Lola explains concisely. "The threat has been nullified, thanks to the Captain."

Pepper shakes her head as they climb the stairs. Wryly, "I swear. They're like danger magnets."

"Never a dull moment. I am accustomed to it. My brother is quite the troublesome sort as well."

"Do you live here in Manhattan?"

"Oh no. I'm… out of town."

Pepper smiles. "Business or pleasure?"

Espionage, Lola answers to herself. "A little of both."

"Fantastic." They reach the landing and Pepper escorts her through the wing until they come to the clouded glass of the French doors. Pepper takes her inside and crosses the immaculate, modestly furnished white room. She walks towards the closet, which slides open just before she reaches it. She disappears momentarily.

Lola explores the room with her eyes, noting the wide seamless window overlooking a spectacular view of the glittering city. Pepper emerges, holding the slender hangers of two dresses. She brandishes them alternately so Lola may select one. The first is short and seductive, layered with black mesh over scarlet fabric, the ribbon-like straps meant to hang over the shoulders. The second is a floorlength emerald dress made of a thin, glossy material. It ties behind the neck, leaving what remains of the long straps to dangle down the back. Lola singles out the green one with a sinuous point of her finger.

"I had a feeling you might choose that one," Pepper agrees with an approving smirk. She replaces the red dress in the closet. She motions to the left, indicating another door of opaque glass. "The shower is through there. Feel free to use whatever you need." Laying the dress, gloves, and a pair of opened toed black stilettos in Lola's arms, "I'm glad Steve is finally branching out. I think Tony's relieved too." Before Lola can correct her, "He's been really distant and reclusive lately. We were all kind of secretly wondering if he was going to be alright after all that happened to him and what he lost. No matter how tough he appears on the outside, the heart of a mortal man still beats inside him. Try not to break what he has left? He needs someone to take care of him."

Pepper smiles and passes her by, leaving Lola to hang on her words. She hears the door open and the latch catch as it closes. She stands rooted in place, uncertain of what she is feeling. After a long, introspective pause she realizes it is guilt. Lola has no plans to take care of Rogers, nor does she feel any affection for him. He is a pawn in her game, nothing more. Yet, Pepper's request finds a foothold in her heart, threading into place like fastidious vine. She rolls her eyes and sighs, trying to forget the notion. The Captain's bleeding heart is not her concern.

She elevates a small handful of the dress, careful not to clutch it tight enough to wrinkle the fabric, and keeps it from entangling her feet as she descends the stairwell. The black satin gloves ending above her elbows glide like liquid down the banister. She is a few steps from the bottom landing when, compelled by Stark's sudden silence, the inspiring figure of Captain America in full uniform turns and sees her. She recognizes the otherwise unimpressive human form of Bruce Banner beside him as well, dressed in a tailored suit. Pepper squeezes the shell of Stark's arm and smiles.

A jeweled clasp secures the lengthy green straps behind her neck. They trail down the bare skin of her back, her shoulders equally exposed. There is a diamond dusted broach centered below the bust of the gown that sparkles in the right light. Her hair is pinned to the left, a long mess of ebony ringlets cascading down her shoulder. Lola knows she is beautiful. She would tolerate nothing less in an alternate form. But something about the way Rogers is looking at her causes an irritating tightness around her lungs. She smirks at him furtively to conceal her on insecurity. Stark steps forward and playfully digs an elbow into his side. Rogers strides forward and meets her at the bottom of the stairwell, slack jawed in an undignified stupor. Lola patiently slants a curvaceous eyebrow.

Rogers clears his throat and offers her his arm. "Ma'am." She takes it as she steps down to the floor. "You look amazing," he murmurs to her, trying to curb his growing smile.

Calmly, "Thank you Captain. You look quite dashing yourself." He inclines his chin and fills his chest. She nearly laughs.

"Kodak moment. Does anyone have a camera?" Stark asks, glancing around. Pepper swats his arm.

"Dr. Banner, meet Lola Lancaster," Rogers introduces when they reach the group.

Banner extends his hand with a lazy smirk. "Enchanted." Lola cannot determine if he is being sarcastic or genuine. She extends her hand in kind and gives his a light squeeze with a grateful dip of her chin.

Stark claps his hands together with a metallic clang. "Now it's a party."

"Indeed," Lola agrees with a beguiling grin. She senses Rogers staring at her from the corner of his eyes and hopes it stings him that she does not do that same.

Rogers muses modestly, "Don't you think this is sort of showy? Isn't it odd that we're parading around in the open like this?"

"Welcome to the celebrity life. This is all part of the flare of heroism, Stevie. You've got to capitalize. Jarvis, can we get some Champagne over here?" Stark asks the empty air.

"Certainly, sir," a synthetic, pleasant male voice answers.

"And take the rest of the night off. Hibernate, or whatever it is you do."

With a hint of sarcasm, "Thank you kindly, sir. You're most generous."

"Shall we?" Stark offers his arm to Pepper. She smirks and accepts it. They turn and proceed back to the crowds gathered towards the central axis of the building. Lola notices that Banner looks slightly more unsettled than normal, as though he is uncomfortable.

She offers him her unoccupied elbow. "Dr." He flashes her a appreciative smirk and obliges. The three of them follow Stark and Pepper back to the festivities, which are well underway.

Lola recalls the last time she danced – with Sif at a celebration on Asgard. This banquet was an annual affair. Albeit her beauty, Sif made a rigid partner, but one so hardened by war should be expected to emanate nothing less. Lola is reminded of her immense stores of strength as Rogers leads her around the floor, feeling inapt at following his stiff steps. She forces the dominance in her natural personality to recede. Being a woman is so very complicated.

"So… are you seeing anyone?" he poses bashfully.

"How do you mean?" she asks, unfamiliar with that particular way of phrasing a question.

"Romantically speaking, is there a man in your life?" he asks, the boldness of his statement a sizable leap for his modest personality.

Lola averts her eyes thoughtfully. Thor's image looms in her mind. "There was," she tells him. "But it is not to be. Unimaginable distance separates us now. That rift will never be bridged. Our differences cannot be resolved."

"I am sorry," Rogers relays, though his voice is very far away. Lola's memory strays back several years, to a time before the tide came in, before she realized her destiny lay on a different path than her intended. She has tried to find peace with the pain, but only succeeded in letting it fuel her actions. Witnessing Thor's fascination with Jane drove an unconquerable wedge between them. She is partially maddened with jealousy, partially poisoned by betrayal that is not necessarily rational. Though their affair was more serious than anyone was aware, Thor's feelings were not as strong, not as severe as hers were. For his confusion and regrettable lapse in judgment, he will suffer. His choice, unintentionally, also determined hers.

"Lola?" She looks up abruptly. Rogers is regarding her questioningly.

"I apologize," she relents uncharacteristically. "A great deal has transpired today."

His expression falls. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

Lola realizes Rogers believes himself to be the one to blame for her preoccupation. He stomachs far too much responsibility for any individual to take on. She assumes a charming smirk. "Oh? And why, pray tell, did you bring it up in the first place?"

He blanches. "Well." He hardens his expression against reproach. "It is important to assess possible motives and peril from all angles."

"Granted," she agrees and continues to dance with him. She watches him swallow discretely, suddenly interested in something over her shoulder. She delights in making him uncomfortable and thus holds her gaze.

Rogers steps falter for an instant. He releases her and steps back. "I should see about that phone call now… before Stark drinks himself into a coma. If you'll excuse me." Lola replies with a subtle smile. He bows his head and strides away.

"May I?" a man says. She pivots towards him, slightly startled. Banner smiles, his hand waiting at the ready. She relaxes and lays her hand in his and her other on his shoulder. After a few counts, "You look… familiar."

"Do I?" she asks with a capricious grin.

"Yeah. You remind me of someone I've met… but I can't quite put my finger on who."

"Ah. Well, I can only hope the resemblance is not entirely unfortunate. Someone I should aspire to, perhaps?"

"I guess we'll see."

Lola, unabashed by his slighted response, changes the subject. Pleasantly, "You know, I nearly didn't recognize you without your infamous complexion. It seems an affinity for green is something we share."

His wide smile holds no mirth. "I hate green."

"Pity. It suits you." She retreats from his embrace. "If you'll excuse me, I've had a rather trying day. I think I shall retire. Thank you for the dance."

"Where did you say you were from?" he inquires as she turns away.

"I didn't." Lola leaves him.


	4. Episode 4 Introspection

Lola wades gracefully through the sea of faces and garish conversations, the majority of them she ignores completely. A corpulent man squeezed in a tuxedo steps aside and a woman appears some distance away, standing amidst a larger group of gregarious, giggling females. The woman, like herself, is tall. She has a willowy figure, prone to sway precariously with the softest breath of wind, a string of a creature, a white shadow of a woman. Long snowy blonde hair swathes her lithe figure, reaching the bend of her knee. She is dressed in a dangerously short shimmering dress, presenting the impression of liquid silver as it molds to every curve and bone of her body. Long transparent mesh wraps the remainder of her long legs, fastened to the hem of the shorter fabric in draping swoops, flowing out into a longer train at her heels.

As though she can feel Lola's eyes on her, she begins to turn. Her hair almost appears to float as she twists, like wisps of a sun kissed cloud. Her face, like porcelain, is flawless, perched atop a long, slender neck. Her eyes gleam with an unnatural cloudy blue color, so light that it appears ghoulish. Lola is rooted to the marble floor, frozen in her ghostly leer. The woman's expression is unreadable. She gradually tilts her head, thoroughly appraising Lola with purposeful examinations from head to toe. Panic swells in Lola's chest as the nightmarish moment drags on, feeling oddly vulnerable and exposed – completely isolated. Like a mouse before a snake, she is staring cold death in the face. Lola tears her eyes away and adjusts her trajectory, taking the right corridor. Here, the lighting is less vivid than in the main room.

At the end of the hallway, before she rounds the corner, Lola chances a glance back at the woman, who still stands like a fragile tower of pearl, staring at her. There is a soft, eerie smile on her pale face.

Lola, frazzled, opens the nearest door and enters a room, swiftly shutting it behind her. She quickly twists the lock into place. Lola sees nothing to condemn the woman as a hunter, or even a threat, aside from the unsettling way she studied her, as though she could see right through her disguise. She is not Eudorian. Eudorian females, even in human form, are nowhere near as alluring. Likely as not, she is but an intimidating human.

Her entrance activates the motion lights and she realizes she is in a restroom. There are dual sinks pocketing a granite counter, inlayed with flecks of obsidian, turquoise, and Formica. There is an intricate floral arrangement in the corner crowning a slender table of swirling iron bars. She crosses to the counter, her heels chiming hollowly against the granite floor. She stares at her still somewhat unfamiliar reflection, willing the anxiety to subside. Dr. Banner is the only one who seems to have qualms about her presence. He is clever, despite his other lacking aspects. As of this moment, he is the only one she worries about.

She lays her hands on the sharp ledge of the counter and wilts down between her shoulders, hanging her head. For reasons she cannot fathom, Roger's question resurfaces in her heart, which promptly ascends into her throat. She swallows it down stubbornly. Recollections she has tried to wish into oblivion worm their way through her mental barriers… and she is in Asgard again. There, she stares not into the face of death, but into the image of the life she still secretly longs for.

* * *

Loki layers himself in the appointed adornments of his royal status, setting gilded fastens and securing intricate buckles in place. The silver and gold ornaments of his attire reflect stray sunbeams of the morning light. The permanently agreeable climate leaves the air warm and welcoming. Extraordinary jeweled fountains are bubbling just below in the courtyard. He hears the bed groan behind him.

"Where are you going?" a cavernous voice demands, rich with arrogance.

Loki raises his eyes to the looking glass, casting a fleeting glance at the image of Thor draped superciliously across the bed, half wrapped in a mess of disheveled sheets, the mighty breadth of his back braced against the headboard. "I have a meeting with the Hex Maker. And if I'm not mistaken, you have an appointment with Sif as well. I suggest you prepare."

Thor smiles in that haughty way that churns Loki's stomach and simultaneously pricks his heart. "Who may command the King of Asgard?" he announces, annunciating the title with care.

With a subtle smirk of his own, he corrects quietly, "I do not command. I suggest." He returns his attention to the clasp at his waist.

Thor folds his arms. "Semantics," he dismisses, averting his piercing blue gaze, brimming with conviction and brazen nobility, towards the colonnade. The domes and spires of Asgard loom regally beyond the balcony, washed ivory and gold against the dawn.

Loki admires him for a moment before he wets his hands in the basin and combs them back through his hair, slicking the previously loose pitch strands away from his face. "You are not King yet, though the hour of your coronation is fast approaching. Until then, you are subject to the daily obligations of us lowly peasants, my liege."

Thor's brows knit together indignantly as he fixes Loki in an imposing leer Loki has already grown accustomed to. "That is not what I meant. You know I do not appreciate when you make assertions like so."

Loki faces him and smirks, the expression conveying a level of sympathy that make's Thor's frown plunge farther downward. "You do not think before you speak. Oftentimes, I do not expect you to know what you mean, even after the words leave your lips."

Thor grates his teeth. He groans and scrubs his face with his hands. "Why must you dance around me as you do? You demote me in a single sentence."

Loki crosses the seamless marble slabs to edge of the bed and sits down, fisting his boot from the floor where he kicked it off the evening prior. "Someone needs to keep your feet on the ground." He pulls it on and glances about for the second.

Wryly, "I'd rather recline abed." He slouches back, enhancing the prominent muscles in his chest. "It is early yet."

Somewhat distracted, "It is practically midday by Odin's standards." He discovers the boot shoved halfway under the bed. As he fits himself into it, "Are you going to argue with me, or must I drag you in tow?" He finds Thor's eyes, a mistake he recognizes immediately, instantly transfixed and floundering in their silent mix of admiration, humor, and resignation, somewhat reminiscent of their dalliances the night before. Loki averts his eyes and tightens the strap of his boot. He does all he can to curb the sincere smirk that threatens his lips. "Do not look at me that way, or I will set the sheets crawling with maggots."

Thor's hand suddenly seizes his wrist and hauls it away from his boot. Loki clenches his own broad hand, powerful enough to crush a human skull, and twists towards him, as though the pressure will ward off the thick tangle of devotion trapped in his chest. Thor retains the same emotionally invoking look, appealing to every fiber of Loki's being, clearly not taking his threat seriously. Thor quirks an eyebrow, displaying an unprecedented level of snobbery that somehow makes him all the more attractive. Loki accepts defeat accordingly. He sighs.

Loki's blunt proclamation is softened by the gentleness in his voice, "This cannot come to light. You know that. Conjugal promises nor lascivious desires, love nor loyalty, will ever conquer the damage this would do to your reputation. It cannot be. Protest though you may, it will demolish a great many things. And I cannot let you throw away all on a whim."

Thor's normally formidable expression wanes. His gravelly voice is sepulchral when he replies. "I know." The mood is suddenly somber.

Loki tries to remain anesthetized. He prudently avoids illuminating the notion that he does not believe Thor's heart is as entrenched as his is. For this, he despises and adores him. The tumultuous fear writhes in his gut, even as he considers it. This ominous parasite has burrowed deep within him, seeding an obsession of ultimate equality that grows with each passing day. In a way, it frightens him. It lurks in the dark corners of his mind, scraping vicious claws over otherwise rational reason. It is tainting him. Loki, a creature of logic, experiences a certain amount of unpredictability and uncertainty in Thor's presence. He conceals it with clever smirks and cunning nuances, but it exists nonetheless. He is shrewd to him at times, because the alternative nauseates him. To Loki, and to the court, they are not compatible. Loki regards Thor coldly until he releases him.

"As King, I will rectify this," he promises. "When I am Allfather… it will be well."

"When you are Allfather," Loki repeats velvety, giving no indication of his lack of faith in the statement. Though, despite his predetermined prejudice, he cannot help but fall farther than he can afford to.

* * *

Lola's hands, tight with tension, unintentionally crack the thick stone slab. Her muscles quiver and ripple.

The series of events that unfold beyond that point are a riotous mess of noise and anguish. An abysmal mass of black hatred wells up from the depths of her eternal soul as she remembers learning the truth of her sordid origins and soon after unintentionally bringing about the Allfather's brush with death. With unimaginable animosity, she recalls witnessing Jane slowly peel Thor from her grasp, though it is not entirely Jane's fault. Thor did not make the effort nearly difficult enough. Lola wishes she had listened more ardently to her intuition and guarded her mind more frugally against the ridiculous ideals of love.

Gradually, the seed of obsession germinates into something considerably more lethal and illogical. She is consumed by her feverish desire to reclaim what was never really hers to begin with, blinded by self-loathing and inadequacy.

The fissure scours the counter and climbs into the adjacent peerless mirror, sending a spidering web of delicate fractures over the surface. Lola relents her vice-like grip. She gathers herself to full height and rolls her shoulders, concurrently cracking her spine. Hatred consumes her sentiment. It surges through her, swallowing anything that could interfere with her plans.

With a wave of her hand, the cracks evaporate. With the follow through, she hooks her hair behind her ear, appraising her reflection as she tilts her head and inclines her chin, numb to all other stimuli, consumed with pride and the desire to exact the same fictitious betrayal against everyone her former brother holds dear. The thought makes her smile. She dives low into the veneer of depravity and relishes in the comfort it brings.

The Earthling Avengers are first.

Next, Jane Foster.

Then, she will finish Odin, exacting poetic vengeance for his lies.

Then, then, after he has lost absolutely everything, suffered anguish unimaginable, Thor will finally fall.

She crosses the restroom and opens the door, casting a pointed glance down the hall, packed with confidence she did not possess before. The willowy woman in silver is gone. Lola, however, is weary of indulging in Stark's frivolous masquerade. She turns down the hall and retraces her steps to the room Pepper showed her to, planning to wait the idiocy out, also giving herself time to plot without the ruckus. She climbs the stairs.

Safely inside the immaculate white room, Lola leaves the lights off. It is bright enough with the city shinning through the window. The seclusion of darkness broadens her mind, enabling her to concentrate more readily on the tasks at hand. She sits gracefully at the foot of the bed and removes the heels from her feet. She lays back and closes her eyes, allowing her mind to wander and her consciousness likeness to explore her surroundings. She retraces her path down the stairs, directing the spectral phantom through the corridors, the guests and false gentry oblivious to her presence. She sees them through a lens with blurred edges, clearest at the center. They do not see her at all.

"Stark," comes a voice, muffled by the watery stretch of space. She senses something pressing in his voice. She adjusts her focus and watches Rogers place his hand on a man's shoulder and pass him graciously, proceeding towards Stark, who stands with Pepper at a bar. She is seated on a leather stool. Rogers looks more unnerved than usual. "Have you seen Lola?" he asks Stark.

Stark sways slightly, but manages to make the motion look suave. "You lost her already? Wow. That was fast. You know, we really gotta work on-"

"We haven't," Pepper pipes up, laying a warning hand on Stark's shoulder. She is more sensitive to Roger's slightly shaken appearance. "I'm sure she's here somewhere. Perhaps she's in the restroom."

Rogers nods to her and turns away. Lola decides to follow him. She cannot imagine what all the fuss is about. His purposeful steps are slow as he scans the room, taking inventory of every face. When he does not see her there, he turns and walks down the right corridor, ignoring the flirtatious glances of a young woman and her equally interested companion. He sees Banner near the second half bar and strides towards him. So like Stark to have multiple bars. Banner is seated at the counter, looking partially surly, mulling over meaningless matters no doubt.

"Dr." Banner glances up. "Have you seen Ms. Lola?"

Banner nods, though he does not look partially thrilled about that. She briefly recalls their dance and grimaces. "I saw her a few minutes ago in the main room."

"She's not there now," Rogers informs matter-of-factly.

He shrugs, flitting his hand in the direction of the stairwell. "She mentioned being tired. The commotion might have been too much. I think was going to lay down or something."

Rogers brows knit together. Lola realizes he is worried about her, which is nigh hilarious enough to render her hysterical. She can only imagine the thoughts flashing through his mind – Was she poisoned? Hypnotized? Possessed? Lola smirks. "Lay down? Where?"

After a swallow, "I don't know. Frankly, I don't really care. Why are you so concerned?"

Stridently, "She is under my protection until I hand her over to SHIELD. Fury wants to see her personally." Lola's expression withers. Fury is the last person she wants to see again.

Banner rolls his eyes, cocking his jaw askance. He returns his attention to his drink, swirling the ice in his glass. "There's something strange about that girl, Cap. I'm not one to make waves… just… be careful."

Clearly sensing Banner is not going to be any more help, Rogers turns and strolls out of the room. There are no guests in this wing of the tower. His expression solidifies confidently, as though a thought has occurred to him. "Jarvis," he calls.

"Yes, sir?"

"The woman in green. Find her."

"I beg your pardon sir, I'm really not supposed to use my surveillance protocol to-"

"SHIELD needs to see her. And I'm the one who has to deliver her to them safely. Find her."

"Yes sir. This will just take a moment." Lola assumes Jarvis is combing the building. She drums her fingers on her stomach. Rogers fists his hands, awaiting his news. She cannot help but find great amusement in Rogers' distress. Jarvis returns, but his voice sounds uncertain. "I am sorry sir… I cannot seem to locate her. Though, there is one room on the fourth floor that seems to be… shielded from my sensors. Quite odd." Lola frowns to herself. She is on the fourth floor and she has the power, but she has not shielded the room.

Roger's hastens to the stairs. "Is something the matter, sir?" Jarvis calls politely after him. "Shall I alert Mr. Stark?" Rogers ignores him. Something about the urgency in his eyes makes Lola's snap open. She is startled to find the air frigid enough to see the slow white puffs of her own breath. Her joints feel stiff from the cold.

She sits up with some effort. The woman in silver stands at the foot of the bed, though, she looks somehow different. She is partially translucent, as though the foremost thick layer of her skin is nothing but glass, or, more appropriately, ice. Her hair does float around her now, tousled freely by the invisible fingers of a breeze that does not exist. Her eyes are completely white.

Just this once, Lola laments that Rogers could not arrive fast enough.

"Well?" Lola prompts. "If you've come to kill me, time is of the essence."

The woman smirks, thin creases at the corners of her eyes giving the expression a sinister touch. "I have not come to kill you, Loki, son of Laufey." Her voice has a strange, soothing musical quality to it, chiming and humming, resonating angelically while it chills one to the bone.

"Then might I be bold enough to appeal as to hear the reason you have come? I am expecting company momentarily," she warns, knowing it will not take too much longer for Rogers to reach her, assuming the lummox is clever enough to navigate the hallways.

"I am Vyctraes, Empress of the planet Ceras." Lola suppresses her surprise. The Empress chuckles unkindly. "You have heard of me, I presume."

"I have heard tell of your people, yes. But being as Ceras is not one of the nine realms, it was not pertinent reading." The Cerael are complex creatures, though typically peaceful. They prefer to keep to themselves, shrouded in mystery, exclusive and ill accepting of different races. They hold purity in the highest esteem.

Vyctraes turns her body and makes a fluid slash through the air with her hand. A bright flash makes Lola squint her eyes and lift her hand against the light. The light dies and a rip appears, spreading until it reveals the sphere of an ethereal blue planet, surrounded by an encroaching cloud of strange, yellowing fumes. Small flashes occur from time to time, as though lightening is wreaking havoc on the surface beyond the sickly smog. Lola slides off the bed, the satiny smoothness of her dress lubricating the action. She approaches the image and peers through the break, trying to put reason to what she is witnessing.

"The nuclear calling card left by their prestigious Iron Man has leeched poison into the air. The atmosphere of Ceras is collapsing. The conditions are no longer conducive to sustaining life. My people are dying. And so I have come here to deliver unto you a proposal." She turns her head towards Lola and the extra-dimensional image disappears. The room is darker. Lola steps aside as the Empress starts to circle her, practically floating in her vulturous trek. Lola inclines her chin, following her trail until she vanishes behind her back. "It is only just that we observe the laws of equivalent exchange and constant balance. Since it appears an alien species cannot live harmoniously with the inhabitants of this planet, we plan to take it. And the Humans will be exterminated." This is fitting. Vyctraes is the sort who would never tolerate human breath polluting her air, even as slaves.

Lola keeps her face unreadable, slanting an eyebrow as though she is unamused. "Why bring these words of doom to me?" The Empress still circles her.

"Because you are in an advantageous position to me at the moment. You have infiltrated the Avengers Initiative, undetected. Your disguise is truly magnificent. They are the only force that stands in my way. I have seen your mind, Prince of Ice. You plan to destroy them, just as I do. We abide on like sides."

Lola considers her words, appreciating the eloquent nature of her proposition, though not entirely succumbing to it."And what is it you would have me do?"

"Exactly what you desire to do. Eliminate the Avengers… and kill Thor. As Earth's presiding deity, he will be the most pressing target. Earth shall be mine. Asgard shall be yours, as it should be."

Lola turns her head enough to crack her neck. "According to your laws, don't I belong on Jotunheim with the rest of my kind?" she corrects noxiously, fusing her eyes with the wall beyond.

Vyctraes laughs musically. "It is the purity of my own race that maintains superiority in my agenda, not others. You misjudge me."

The doorhandle rattles, like someone is trying to open it from the outside. "Lola," Rogers says, as though she has not already predicted who is there. When she does not answer, he pounds his fist against the door twice. "Lola!"

The Empress looks unabashed, passing in front of Lola as she smiles. "Do consider it. I shall return when you have your answer. Though, in the meantime, I cannot guarantee your safety."

Lola has no time to inquire about her meaning. She vanishes a moment before the Captain, in his haste, kicks the door in. It falls with a thud, spotting the pristine carpet with mahogany woodchips. Rogers goes to enter the room, but stops abruptly when he sees his breath. "Are you alright?" he asks insistently.

Lola knows she cannot explain away the cold, or the fact that Jarvis told Rogers the room was somehow shielded from his surveillance. She must lie. Luckily, she excels at lying.

"Oh Captain! It was dreadful," she says dramatically, hurrying towards him. "I was so very tired that I came to this room to rest. I had only just dozed off when it happened. I didn't see them, but they must have been here somehow. The air grew so very cold. I think they meant to freeze me alive! I tried the door and the windows, but they were locked and much too thick for me to break through on my own. When I called for help, no one answered. I couldn't hear the party. It was like they put me in some giant refrigerator!" She calls tears to her eyes. "I was so frightened!" She huddles against his chest, pretending to cry quietly. "Thank you. You've rescued me again."

When Rogers wraps his stiff arms around her and props his chin on top of her head, Lola rolls her eyes, sickened by such proximity to him. "I shouldn't have let you out of my sight," he remits. "It won't happen again."

/Joy/ she mourns silently.


	5. Episode 5 Something to Lose

Rogers lies awake in one of Stark's spare rooms. He doesn't want to close his eyes because all he can see in the darkness is Lola's face. He does not want to understand why she fascinates him. He does not want to admit that he can draw so many correlations between Lola and Peggy – A sharp wit, class, intelligence, eloquence, cunning, and kindness when it suits her. Even her accent is comparable. His heart aches. He swallows thickly, recalling the afternoon he got the terrible phone call.

* * *

Rogers picks the cream-colored phone up from the receiver, the old device lacking caller id and speed dial. It is the closest he has come to keeping with the times. "Hello?"

"Good afternoon. Is Steve Rogers available?"

Rogers is scanning the headlines of the newspaper for the umpteenth time, trying to understand what WIFI has to do with a burger joint. "Speaking."

"Hello Mr. Rogers. My name is Linda Thomson, with Fairview Assisted Living and End of Life Care." Her introduction is too formal. Though he stares at the paper, Rogers no longer sees it. A gripping fear renders him speechless and steals his breath. She isn't calling to put Peggy on the line today. There is a deafening pause. "We're very sorry to tell you, sir. But Ms. Carter passed away last night-" She says more, but the emptiness in Roger's chest transcends the noise.

He visited Peggy at Fairview several times since his revival from the accursed casket of ice. At first, despite the wrinkles, she is just as vivacious and vibrant as ever. But as the months crawl by, Rogers begins to notice the telling signs of real age into the onset of her last year. She succumbs to time's unforgiving price. As her strength wanes, he remains unchanged. It haunts him. She withers away until she refuses to let Steve see her.

He waits in the lobby of the hospice center for hours on end with a small bouquet of roses, unmindful of the comings and goings of nursing staff and medical personnel, melancholy wives and crying families. Still, Peggy will not see him in her deteriorating condition. "I don't want you to remember me like this," she explains over the phone. Rogers finally agrees, on the stipulation that she call him every afternoon, so long as she is up to it.

* * *

Tear drops roll down his temples. It is in rare moments like these when he is somewhat grateful for his time on ice. Watching Peggy die was so hard on him. The fact that he did not have to witness other loved ones suffer the same fate while he stands by, hale and young and untouched by the phantom that permeates the rest of humanity, is in some small way a gift. There is a dark veil over him these days. So long as he makes no effort to reach out and connect with people, he will never need to worry about loss again. He plunged into those arctic waters thinking he was making the eternal sacrifice, that he would die and Peggy would live. But in the end, that is not the case. His sacrifice is far from finished.

Steve sits up and scrubs his face with calloused hands, battling old sobs. He rubs the urge to cry away stubbornly. He composes himself and takes a deep breath, hanging his elbows on his knees. He turns his attention to the door. He knows Lola is sleeping in the bedroom just across the hall. There is much he does not know about her, much that should rouse his suspicions, and much that should keep him on edge. Yet, he wants to be around her more than anyone, not only for her resemblance to Peggy, but because she helps him forget. She distracts him in the most wonderful way, irritating comments and surly glares notwithstanding.

Rogers reflects on her story and the mystery man with whom she cannot make amends. He wonders if she is just as forlorn as he is. He pushes a hand back through his hair.

He is determined to complete his mission, no matter the cost. For the first time in many years, the fight is personal because he is so emotionally invested. This puts a serious kink in his "never get attached" plan. Perhaps, he considers, he is trying too hard to find Peggy in Lola. He will not go as far as to say he has something to live for, but he certainly has something to lose. Whether that something is good or bad, Rogers cannot determine at this juncture. The thought torments him that perhaps she is not telling him the whole truth. He knows so little about her. Then again, the less the better. That might cushion the blow if she is lying. Maybe…

It occurs to Rogers that once he gets Lola to HQ, Fury will whisk her away down the corridor and into the interrogation and profiling process where his time with her will be limited. He may never get to be alone with her again. When it is all over, she could be hidden in some remote corner of the world with a different name. Unless Rogers is assigned to her protection detail, which is unlikely because of his position in the Initiative, that will be the end of it all.

Fury did not give him a deadline persay. Rogers reasons it is not going against protocol to take a few detours along the way.

Rogers will not tell Lola that Fury offered to send transportation and dismiss him from the worries of the case. He will not tell her that he insisted on escorting her himself. Lola, like Peggy, is a prideful woman, but unlike Peggy, Lola might not be glad for his dedication.

Rogers steals a glance at her, silently marveling at the way she hooks her unruly black hair behind her ear while the wind whips into the truck - an old blue ford pickup belonging to Stark's gardener. Lola is gazing out the passenger side window, her legs kicked up on the dashboard and crossed at the ankles. Tony insisted on taking Lola shopping before they left. Rogers knows SHIELD will reimburse him. If she is going to be a fugitive from aliens, she is going to do it in style. And of course, Pepper was adamant about tagging along. Rogers was grateful. If Tony had his way, Lola would leave the outlet with lingerie… and nothing else. Pepper made them both stay outside the store when they entered that department.

She is wearing a new pair of snug black jeans. Her striped collared top is buttoned low enough to be daring, cut off at the shoulders, hugging her in precisely the wrong places. It ties just below the bust, exposing her midriff. She wears a short sleeveless black vest over it, embossed on the back with silver studs in the design of wings. Her black and white stripped heels lay on the floor, adorned with little green bows.

All three outfits she and Pepper selected accentuate things that make Rogers light up like a Christmas tree.

Sully's bike is in the bed and rattles as they turn down the dirt road to his saloon. The old man ambles out of his garage. Rogers gives him a casual salute. Jack Sullivan removes his straw hat and waves to them, as though he is flagging them down. He flings his hat down into the dust and props his fists on his hips, standing proudly. He seems delighted, a thousand watt smile plastered over his face, his contentment and fulfillment of the lifetime long behind him sensations Rogers will never experience.

Sully practically skips up to Rogers as he hops down from the driver's side. He clasps his hand, shaking it vigorously. Rogers is surprised when Lola gets out too, barefoot, and gracefully picks her way around the hood. Roger's smile grows when he sees Sully's reaction to her outfit. He looks at Rogers and thumbs towards her while she approaches. Steve nods, knowing all too well what he means. Sully takes Lola's hand, holding his hat over his heart, and kisses her knuckles. Lola laughs, the sound like a symphony of hundreds of tiny silver bells, her smile more brilliant than all fifty stars and then some. She is in rare form today. Their conversation passes Rogers by in a haze. She is just too beautiful to be real.

Rogers situates Sully's bike in the garage. He promises to stop by for a visit as soon as he can. He knows all too well how valuable time is for people of Jack's age. Just before they go, Lola pecks Sully's grizzly cheek. A blush climbs up into the old man's face, the red more vibrant against the white of his beard. He waves them away with a boyish grin, shaking his head. Rogers watches Lola lean out of the window and wave goodbye. Jack does the same.

They are speeding down the interstate. Fury is currently in New Mexico with Jane Foster and her team, investigating a recent spike in celestial energy entering Earth's atmosphere. He plans to be there for quite some time. Whatever is going on has everyone in a tizzy, but Rogers hardly gives the matter a second thought. His thoughts stray to matters much closer to him, within reach in fact. He and Lola have quite a drive ahead. Rogers wouldn't have it any other way.

The sun falls as Lola tries a cheeseburger, seemingly for the first time, and Rogers pulls into the dusty lot of a roadside motel. After checking with the tenant, Rogers discovers there is only one room available. This breaches the line of propriety. Rogers is very uncomfortable with the idea. Lola, however, does not seem to mind. The tenant leads them to the second building and fishes for the key to apartment thirteen. Rogers needn't have worried. The instant they enter the room, Lola flops down in bed and ignores him for the remainder of the evening. Rogers takes one of the pillows, along with the spare blanket, and beds down on the floor.

Early the following morning, Rogers awakens to find Lola sitting up in bed, staring at him. It is not a particularly kind look either. It is much like the look a haughty cat gives a lowly dog from atop her high perch. He blanches and blinks. She glares dangerously, her hair a tangled mess as she drums her fingers on the mattress. Irritation radiates from her tired eyes.

"Is something the matter, /ma'am/?" he asks tensely. Lola seizes a fistful of sheets and yanks them up over her as she gives him her back. She does not answer. The steady rise and fall of her shoulder leads him to believe she is already asleep again.

After another long day of largely silent driving, they stop off at their second motel – a bed and breakfast. It is smaller than the first, but this one has two rooms available and this time Lola insists on having her own. Rogers does not sleep well, worried that some phantom will come to snatch her away in the night. He tosses and turns. He gets up and paces. He listens. The hours crawl by. There is no clock, no television, no radio, nothing to occupy his racing mind. There is however a New King James Bible in the drawer of the nightstand. He finally falls asleep somewhere around 4AM after finishing the book of Job.

The sun is well overhead when he hears a knock on his door. Rogers sits up and rubs his face. Feeling hungover for the first time in decades, he staggers to the door and opens it. Lola, looking uncharacteristically radiant for someone midway into a cross-country road trip, offers him a plastic coffee cup with a white lid. He assumes she got it from the complementary buffet. He accepts it, half dumbfounded by the small act of kindness. He wonders if he is dreaming. He notices Lola scan the full length of his body before she finds his face again. She raises her eyebrows with a musical, "Hmm." She smiles tartly, turns on her heel, and saunters back into her room. She slams the door.

Only then does Rogers remember he is clad in nothing but his boxer shorts.

He doesn't even bother glancing down. Adopting a disgruntled expression, he groans and drags his feet back into his room. Despite his severe embarrassment, he wonders if that was a good "hm" or a bad "hm". Before jumping in the shower, he does a few sets of sit-ups and pushups… just in case.

Several hours later, with the bed and breakfast well behind them, they come over the crest of a hill, overlooking a sea of rolling green. Acres and acres of pastures stretch on for as far as they can see. The road is framed on either side by white railing. Clusters of horses graze quietly. Rogers decides to pull over.

"What are you doing? Is something the matter?" Lola asks, her brows knitting together.

Rogers just grins and gets out, taking the keys with him. He nods towards the fence and shuts the door. He crosses into the grass and lays his hands over the railing. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue, just like his grandfather used to do. Some of the horses raise their heads, ears perked towards him curiously. He clicks his tongue again. One of them, either the bravest or the most foolish, decides to take a chance and trots over to the fence.

The dapple-grey throws her head up, nickering. She stops just short of the fence and extends her neck into Rogers waiting palm, her lips searching his hand for food. She finds none, but that does not seem to deter her. She steps closer and sniffs at his face. He pets her nose, the soft flesh quivering under his palm. The horse's attention moves to his right. Her ears lay back and then swivel forward, rotating as though she is doubtful. Rogers looks over his shoulder, seeing Lola standing in the grass with clenched fists, watching the horse wearily. Rogers nods her over with a comforting smirk. Lola stands planted in the grass, looking more disgusted and apprehensive than he has ever seen her. She gradually, somewhat begrudgingly makes her way over to them.

Rogers demonstrates to her how he holds his hand out and pets the mare. Lola takes his lead and slowly extends her own hand. She is not close enough to reach the mare. Rogers shakes his head, grinning, and moves towards her. She glares at him. He responds with a kind smirk. He loops an arm around behind her back and takes her wrist in his hand. She balls up her fist and seizes his other wrist. He does not know whether her grasp is tight because she is offensed or because she is afraid.

He urges her closer with small steps. The mare's ears are still swiveling uncertainly. She tosses her head up and down as though she is nodding, her tail thrashing like a whip. Rogers finally convinces Lola to open her hand. Lola tenses when the mare extends her neck and meets her palm with a push of her muzzle. She snorts into her hand. He catches Lola chuckling. She relaxes against him and reaches out, stroking the horse's forehead, combing her fingers through the coarse cluster of mane between her ears. Rogers is smiling at her, but Lola's attention is focused on the horse.

On the border between Texas and New Mexico, the pair stop off at their third hotel. This marks their last night together. This place, a small Marriot, is considerably nicer than the others. The white building is overrun with windows, the lot dotted with greenery and fountains. When Rogers begins to ask for two rooms, Lola cuts him off. Rogers stands, shocked, when she asks for one. The concierge hands them card keys to suite 202. Lola smiles in exchange and heads in the direction of the elevator, leaving Rogers in a stupor without even a second glance. He follows blindly, convinced his feet are not entirely rooted to the ground anymore. She does not hold the elevator for him. She waves her fingers, sporting a challenging smirk as the doors close.

Rogers rises to the occasion. He looks for the entrance to the stairwell and hastens to it. He throws the door open and runs up the stairs, counting the landings to level seven. He bursts through the door, looking left and right, searching for some indication of his whereabouts. The room right across from the stairwell is 254. Rogers turns right and jogs down the hall, determined to reach the room before Lola does.

The elevator dings open at the opposite end of the hall. Lola stands in the compartment. Seeing him, she cuts her eyes to a glare. Rogers smirks back. They stare at each other before each turns their attention to room 202. They rush forward. Lola plants her palm against the door a millisecond before Roger's does the same, inadvertently covering her hand with his own. He meets her eyes, his slanted smile thawing to an unguarded gaze. He swears he is not imagining it when a flush climbs into Lola's cheeks. She hastily takes her hand away and fishes for the card key. Steve smiles to himself. She fumbles with the card key until she manages to get the door open.

An hour after, they sit at the tiki bar, indulging in tequila and limes. What the bartender calls "shooters" are especially hard to choke down. They make him cringe, the lime masking the bitter taste with a tart sting, but doing nothing for the burn. Lola laughs at his expression. She licks the salt from her fingers. Rogers knows that he is immune to the effects of alcohol, no matter how potent the drink. It does not matter now. He is drunk enough off her presence. Lola, however, is another story.

Later, they walk through the gardens, following the brick pathway that skirts the property. They come to the entrance of one of the gated pools, closed to guests for the evening. Rogers begins to turn back when Lola pulls the card key from her pocket. She opens the gate, smirking at Rogers over her shoulder. Her movements are unnaturally fluid, blending together in a graceful dance that utterly mesmerizes him. He forgets his reluctance and fealty to the rules, following her, admittedly, to the ends of the earth.

She tosses the card key onto an empty lounge chair. She hooks her fingers under the hem of her top and peels it off. She flings it thoughtlessly towards the card. Her curvaceous figure is emphasized by the shadowed lights of the pool. Steve's eyes keep darting down, no matter how valiantly he tries to keep them on her face. Her black bra is alluring enough to call a blush to his cheeks. Her nimble fingers untangle the fastens of her skirt, which drops down her thighs, revealing matching underwear. Now Rogers' cheeks are sweltering.

She steps out of her skirt and kicks it away from the water. She turns from him, presenting a first class view of her calves, accentuated by her heels. She toes them off last as she comes to the stairs of the pool. She descends slowly, her hand ghosting along the chrome colored railing with unholy precision as she wades into the water. Rogers' mouth is a cavern of cotton. He gulps with great difficulty. His heart is hammering in his chest. She turns towards him, the ends of her black hair trailing along the surface of the water like ribbons in the wind. She regards him expectantly, beckoning him in a way that pulls at his heartstrings. Despite how much she drank with him at the bar, she never falters.

It takes everything Rogers can muster to say, "We should really get up to the room. We've still got a long drive tomorrow." Lola's pout is like a dagger in his chest as she wades closer to the edge, but not to climb out. He glances about him, figuring the grounds are rampant with hidden surveillance cameras. Still, he just can't say no to her. Rogers sets his teeth, the prominent muscles kicking in his jaw. He sighs defeatedly and starts to unbutton his shirt.

Just then, "I'm sorry folks. The pool is closed for the evening." The security guard shines his flashlight at them. Rogers sees Lola roll her eyes and flit her hand through the air flippantly. The guard comes closer. "Ma'am, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask that you get out of the pool." Lola folds her arms in defiance. Rogers cringes at the sour look on her face. She moves as if to obey… and promptly splashes the guard. To make matters worse, the guard somehow stumbles and slips into the pool. He plunges in with an undignified splash. Lola raises her hands, blocking some of the water that sails towards her. She dissolves into a fit of triumphant giggles.

Meanwhile, Rogers grabs their possessions. He hastily seizes her arm and easily hoists her out of the water. He clasps her hand and they make a run for it. Lola manages to snatch her heels on their way out. They race back over the path towards their section of the building. They don't stop running until they are in the elevator. Lola, clad in only her underwear, is laughing, oblivious to how immensely uncomfortable her half nakedness is making him. Rogers laughs too, but is having trouble maintaining eye contact with her. He is too tempted to adjust the angle of his gaze. To his surprise, she does not let go of his hand.

The elevator chimes when it reaches their floor. They race to the room, despite the fact that there really is no cause to hurry now.

Lola is in the shower, rinsing off the chlorine and other distasteful chemicals. Rogers listens to the running water and the occasional sound of her humming as he brews a pot of complementary coffee. The bathroom door opens. He glances up, nearly dropping his mug when he sees her in nothing but a towel, tucked in above her breasts. Twisting her wet black hair over her shoulder, she walks around the bed to her small bag of clothing. Rogers curses under his breath when the coffee he was pouring spills over the brim and burns his hand. Lola glances back over her shoulder and smiles at him, as though she knows. Rogers smiles back hopelessly, ignoring the pain in his hand. She does know. She knows exactly what she's doing.

That should set him on edge. That should be a huge red flag. But he loves it. Lola pulls what he assumes is eveningwear out of her bag and walks back into the bathroom, closing the door softly. Rogers wits return to him in a rush. He combs a hand back through his hair, begging his urges to get it together. This is torture of the best kind, but he still has a duty he must not lose sight of.

Steve wanders out on to the balcony while Lola is changing. Towering trees loom in the distance, creating a wall of leaves. Texas is a lot greener than he remembers it. Steve turns towards the condo when he hears a commotion coming from the bathroom. He frowns and sets his mug down on the glass table for two. He leans inside to listen. It is quiet for a few seconds before he is certain he hears the sound of something shattering.

"Lola!" he shouts. Steve strides across the room, jumping over the sofa. He closes his hands around the door handle, but it is locked from the inside. There is a great crash and some sort of growl. He hears Lola scream, the sound a mix of anger and pain. This doors is not as strong as those in Stark's mansion. Steve grits his teeth and pulls the door back with a powerful yank, splintering the wood and metal latch. He throws it open. Shards of glass and porcelain are strewn across the floor. Rogers balks when he sees Lola, clothed in not but her undergarments, laying _in_ the stout wall of the bathtub, as though she fell, or was pushed, right through the thick porcelain. No one, save for himself, could survive that. She is not moving. Her blood is everywhere.

"No," he begs hoarsely. Rogers fears the worst, pricked with panic. The fiend that crouches in the corner makes his guts ascend into his throat. Rogers has never felt such hatred. The canine creature is the size of a golden retriever, but it is gangly and hairless, the lines of its bones highly pronounced under tautly stretched skin. Its yellowing claws have mauled gashes all over Lola's body. He hardly has time to wonder how it slipped past his watch. It tears its attention towards him, fixing Rogers in a leer of pitch black through seemingly empty sockets. It vanishes.

The next thing Rogers knows, he is knocked backwards and lands on the floor with a hard thud. The air is thick with a fetid stench as the hound breathes into his face. He feels an intense sting in his face as the beast slashes his cheek. Rogers leaps into action, reaching to strangle it, but it bounds off of him before he can. He hears the scrape of its claws on the tile. He looks towards the kitchen as it barrels clean through the door to their suite, leaving a jagged hole in the wood. If he is not mistaken, those doors are also enforced with metal. This thing has enormous strength. Rogers may have failed to save Lola, but even in his grief, he cannot let the hound harm anyone else. The need for vengeance grips him like iron.

Rogers rolls to his feet and grabs for his shield. He races after the hound, who leaves a curiously obvious trail of destruction in its wake.

Rogers careens down the hallway, clearing upended side tables and broken vases. Some of the rugs are disheveled and the potted plants overturned. Rage surges through him. His cheek is throbbing. He rounds the corner as a statue goes down. Rogers hurls his shield forward. It strikes his invisible target with a resounding clang. The hound yelps and becomes visible as it tumbles forward, head over heels. The hound scrambles it its feet just as Rogers catches the disk on the rebound. He readies to throw again, but the hound veers left, smashing right through the door to the fire escape. Rogers races to the door and throws it open, met with vacant concrete stairs. He has no idea whether to go up or down until he notices a trail of yellow-brown fluid leading downward. The creature is wounded. Rogers goes to move. His vision swims. He blinks hard and shakes his head.

He clamps his hand around the banister and hurtles over the railing, plunging downward. He lands on the concrete foundation of the ground level in a crouch, new cracks in the stone absorbing the impact. The telling sound of scrapping claws alerts him that he has reached the bottom before the hound has. He stands, whirls towards the stairwell, and throws his shield. This time, it misses. Instead, the end of the banister juts out at him, morphing into the head of a large white snake. Rogers, shocked, recoils and falls backwards. By the time he looks up again, the snake is gone. He reaches up and catches his shield. He blinks hard and shakes his head again. He begins to wonder if his grief is getting the best of him, warping his senses. He is reminded again, with great anguish, that he has failed her. The hound appears on the closest landing and snarls down at him. It darts back up the stairs. Rogers is already on his feet and bolting after it.

He is barely able to regain his balance when he comes to an empty hole where a third floor landing used to be. He falters for a moment, confused. Just as quickly, the landing reappears. He stands there for a second longer, suspicious. He races onward. After a few more steps up the next flight, the stairs begin to move. Rogers sets his jaw and winches at the ensuing shooting pain through his cheek. The fluorescent lights begin to flicker and everything is sent into high contrast, shadows bleeding together like molten metal. He misjudges a step and stumbles.

He has been poisoned. The chase was only to circulate the venom faster.

But this is not right. His cells regenerate too quickly to be effected by any toxin. He should not be succumbing to this! He fights valiantly. His joints stiffen, his body unresponsive to his own commands. He has just enough time to curse himself for falling into this trap before he blacks out.

Rogers has no idea how much time has passed when he regains consciousness. The world is right again, but the gashes on his face are still ripe with pain. He finds his feet and bounds up the stairs. He bursts through the door to floor seven. There, he expects to see the staff in a frenzy trying to clean up the mess left in the hound's wake. Instead, he sees nothing but a clear, undisturbed hallway. Blindsided, Rogers whips his head back to the door behind him. It is hale again. There is no jagged hole where the hound smashed through it.

"Lola-!" he says suddenly and runs to their suite. The door is undamaged, but he notices that it is ajar. He bursts inside. "Lola!" he calls. He rushes to the bathroom. The door is in working order. The bathtub is unbroken. The mirror is intact. There is no blood. But the room is empty. Lola is gone. He realizes they have taken her. He has indeed failed, just like he failed Bucky. Just like he failed Peggy.

Rogers hears a noise behind him and wheels around, his shield at the ready, his eyes glossed over with the sheen of angry tears. He freezes. His expression melts. Lola stands at the refrigerator, head tilted back, swallowing the last of her drink from the tiki bar's graphic souvenir cup. Rogers lowers his shield. He is struck by the possibility he imaged it all… until she closes the refrigerator door.

* * *

[Special thanks to - Stabilo's "Flawed Design" for inadvertently writing a song for Loki.

For Chapter One: White Stripe's "Seven Nation Army" and Tiesto's Trance Energy Mix 2007

For Chapter Two: Junkie XL's "Choke" and 50cent&Basshunter's "In Da Club"

For Chapter Three: LMFAO's "Party Rock Anthem", John Williams' "Jurassic Park: Theme"

For Chapter Four: James Newton Howard's "Tower Prayers", Harry Gregson-Williams' "Fiona's Secret", Epic Score's "Siren", and James Newton Howard's "Escape from the Tower"

For Chapter Five: Safety Suit's "You Don't See Me"/"Things to Say" (Yep. Origins exposed. ;]) and Tactical Suit's "Bring Me Violence".]

Chapter 6 is coming soon.


	6. Episode 6 Your Strongest Ale

**WARNING:** The first part of this chapter is pretty grizzly. If you do not wish to read it, merely skip down to the THIRD break in the page and read about Lola's Huntsman. YES, I TOTALLY JUST MADE A SWATH REFERENCE. I regret nothing! :D

* * *

Lola pushes herself up from the bed. She grunts as she goes to stand, grasping at the curtain. She accidentally drags it down. The pole clatters into the bathtub. The shower curtain settles over it. The sound is so loud that she curls up on the floor and covers her ears.

Instead, she hears, /The casket wasn't the only thing you took from Jotuheim that day was it?/

She cannot remember her name. She wonders how she got into the bathroom. The place is in shambles. The shards dig into her skin. The shards are writhing. The shards are worms. They burrow into her flesh. She leaves a trail of blood behind her as she drags herself to the sink.

Her body has been poisoned so severely, that Lola cannot differentiate between what is reality and what is contrived.

/I never wanted any of this./

She imagines she is in pain. She knows she is in pain. She reaches up towards the ledge of the sink, which seems to stretch upward, away from her. The sensation that she is falling surges through her. She hits the tile. The paint and wallpaper are wilting off walls and the ceiling.

She turns over on her side, curling into herself, struggling against the voices in her head. She watches her blood comb the floor and amass into one solid puddle. The liquid begins to stack and climb, coalescing into a red cloak. There is a black face under the hood. A pallid, deformed hand reaches for her. Thor's hand reaches for her.

/Sometimes, I am envious./

Lola is standing. She walks through a street, piled high with the corpses of the dead and the dying. They steam and hiss. Thorns snake over the asphalt, slithering out from under the bodies. She steps over them, anesthetized to the sting in her feet. Rogers is lying on the concrete, his chest gapping open, his heart gone. Lola reaches inside. His blood burns and clings like hot wax to her hand. And like hot wax, the blood hardens. It is creeping up her arm, uncasing it in a smooth red shell. Lola whimpers angrily and goes to wipe it away. It flakes off. The skin beneath it is blue. She begins to wipe more frantically, her angry whimpers morphing into panicked whines.

She looks down. Thor's corpse lies where Rogers did, awash in flies.

/It's too late./

She screams and staggers backwards. She falls through a hole in the street into the sewer. With a splash, she is submerged in the filthy water. She goes to sit up for air, but cannot move. There are hands around her throat, holding her down. She thrashes in the darkness. The water congeals, forcing her to move in what feels like slow motion. A reel of voices flash through her mind.

/I remember a shadow, living in the shade of your greatness. I remember you tossing me into an abyss, I, who should have been king!/ /I'm not the one who's out of time./ /You brought the monster./ /Come home./ /Thank you for your cooperation./ /Did you mourn?/ /We were raised together. We played together. We fought together. Do you remember none of that?/ /You're going to lose. It's in your nature./ /Can you? Can you wipe out that much red?/ /You have made me very desperate./ /I never wanted the throne! I only ever wanted to be your equal!/ /Until then, I cannot guarantee your safety./ /The Chitauri are coming! Nothing can stop that!/

She suddenly remembers who she is. She screams, demanding release from this nightmare, as though she has the power to alter it. So convinced it she of her own abilities that she starts muttering a spell. The words are all wrong, a bumbling string of syllables in a foreign, guttural language. She does not recognize her own voice. She is falling through space towards gnashing teeth. She plummets farther into herself than she has ever ventured. She becomes aware of the same feeling of hot wax on the inside of her thighs. In her desperation, Lola embraces something tangled deep in the innermost fibers of her being, braiding a new series of strings together. She is hurtled back into the bathroom.

Lola's eyes snap open. They are blazing, burning, radiating red. Biting cold shoots through her. Her skin is coarse and blue.

She comes face to face with the hooded figure. Her hand closes around a shard of glass. She plunges it into the darkness of the hood. The hunched, skulking creature shrieks and recoils. She plants her hands on the floor, spreading a sheet of ice across the tile. Stalagmites jut up from the floor and as the phantom falls, they impale him.

He laughs, the sound a raspy croak. "Salutations… from the Empress."

Lola, possessed by her anger, brings her hands up, directing the ice sheet to curl in on itself, like a large length of fabric. It swallows the fiend and begins to fold, edge after edge. She can hear him shrieking, yelping, croaking, and gurgling above the echoing breaks of his bones. His blood oozes from inside the snare, but the frigid cold of her rage does not relent. She will not end him until she has broken every bone in his body. He wails and is finally silent. She mutters a spell and banishes him into oblivion.

Lola stares at the empty space with vacant green eyes. She slowly looks around at the disaster. She stands, though she is not entirely sure she is consciously aware of it. She begins a spell, the familiarity of her voice somewhat consoling. The bathroom pieces itself back together in a storm of shards. The swell of power is so comforting that she closes her eyes and completely detaches herself from her body, allowing the magic free reign. The infectious spell spreads rapidly, righting every wrong done by her visitors. She is so tempted to stay detached, to let her conscious likeness wonder as far as it wishes to. But it will not change the reality.

She recalls herself.

When she opens her eyes, the suite is untouched. In a fugue, she goes to the sink and begins rinsing the blood off her arms and chest. She still wears her undergarments, but at the moment she could care less about her attire. She lulls herself into a trance. Her skin and senses are numb, which makes feigning sanity an immensely difficult task. She is walking before she knows it, her feet taking her to the refrigerator. In a fog, she opens the door, bathed in cold she hardly perceives, and removes what is left of her drink.

* * *

Rogers stands, horrified and powerless, as vibrant red blood streams down her legs. It pools on the floor at her feet.

Rogers drops his shield. She does not seem to notice. "Lola…" Rogers whispers. She does not respond. "Lola?" he tries again, daring a step towards her. She simply walks past him, placing the empty cup on the counter. She is saying something, repeating the same sonnet of words over and over and over. Rogers deems it incoherent babble. "Lola!" he pleads, seizing her arms. Panicked, he shakes her. "It's me! It's Steve. Please! Snap out of it!" She ceases her mumbling and looks at him, focus returning to her once vacant gaze. He holds his breath. Something subtle changes in her expression. She pulls away from him.

"Unhand me," she hisses. She turns from him and walks towards the bed. The blood is gone. Rogers blinks, nearly maddened with confusion. He steps back, palms turned out in surrender. He notices that his cheek does not hurt anymore. He touches it. There are no gashes, no blood, no nothing to attest to his most recent plight. The implications of this are staggering.

He combs his fingers back through his hair and holds his head. His breath comes rapidly. His eyes are wide, searching for answers in the floor. This could be more results of the poison. But if that is the case, why is Lola unaffected? Hell, why isn't she dead? … Is he dead? Where is all the broken glass, the damage? Is he still back on the stairs, unconscious? Did he ever go to the stairs at all? Where is the hound? Was there even a hound to begin with?

The emotional storm has him balanced on the brink of shouting and sobbing.

Did any of it actually happen?

* * *

The second moon of Teff, called Taldo, is used primarily as a trading planet. It abounds with merchants and thieves alike, a refuge and place of business, a cornucopia of chaos. It is not hard to blend into the commotion. There is little plant life there. Most of the food products and other amenities are imported and sold in cramped, congested bartering markets. The slave trade is also still rampant here. A variety of currency is accepted for all manner of items. Thor presumes this would be where Loki would choose to hide out. However, after three weeks of searching for him, he findsnothing. Thor has traveled to many planets in search of the war criminal, partially because he wants to beat him senseless, and partially because he wants to find him before Odin's guards do… and especially before the Chitauri do.

The Allfather had only just recovered from his altercation with Loki. Having ordered Loki locked away in a prison deep beneath the sea, Odin was trying to draw out the decision process on what to do with him next. Thor watched his father struggle and grow more weary under the weight of the matter. Frigga was worse. She spent the majority of her days in solitude, weeping. Thor knew what the court expected Odin to do. Luckily, he was merciful. Eventually, Odin ordered Loki's powers disbanded by way of specialized inhibitors crafted by a Prime Witch. When Loki learned of his verdict, he was outraged. Thor could never understand Loki's need and attachment to his magic, but he understood Loki's hatred for mortal humans and without his powers, he would become just like them. He should have known that would be the straw that broke the camel's back. Thor was on his way to fetch the witch when Loki escaped, the details of which remain unclear. He still does not want to believe Loki would have truly killed his father, their father, but his nefarious brother is quickly evolving into the sort of evil that strikes without warning: lethal and unpredictable. A sizable number of Odin's guards were not spared.

Looking haggard and feeling worse, Thor lumbers into a local tavern. The ceiling is low enough that he must be mindful of his head. There are hanging contraptions and crude chimes dangling from the rafters as well. All the bustle and chatter goes quiet. He crosses to a table, pulls out a chair, and takes a seat. It creaks precariously beneath him. He ignores the attention. He is dressed in peasant garb and a traveling cloak. So far from Asgard, it is unlikely he will be recognized offhand. He needs a shave and he needs a bath. That does not mean he does not glean interest though… especially from the women. His striking features are rare here amongst the plethora of other intergalactic races. The conversation returns to normal.

Thor opens his hand, staring down at Loki's ring in his palm, signifying his prince-hood. The twisting silver band, braided together in thick knots, is inlaid with an emerald. "Where are you?" he whispers, frowning in earnest.

"Pretty trinket," says the barmaid, propping her fist on one abundant hip. Thor reflexively closes his hand and looks up. She is humanoid for the most part, save for the third eye in the center of her forehead and the third curve in the center of her bust. "Ye sarchin for a wife, solar sailor? Cause I be lookin high'n low fer a husband." She shrugs. "Or at least a one nighter."

Thor laughs and moves to sit straighter in the chair. He smiles, the broad blithe expression catching her off guard. He shakes his head. "No, Lady. Just a drink."

The barmaid cackles. She wipes off his table with a wet rag. "Very well. What can I git for ye?"

"Your strongest ale, if you'd be so kind."

"Ale? Hm. Not many pass thru these parts askin fer ale. Ye far awey from home, are ye?"

"Far enough, maiden. And my journey has not been kind."

She flushes, grinning girlishly. "Maiden? Oh!" She throws her hands up, shaking her head. She turns from him and walks towards the bar to fetch his order. Thor's expression becomes somber. He is running out of places to look. He is starting to wonder if perhaps Loki is already in the clutches of the Chitauri. The mere thought makes his heart ache. He would bargain everything, even his own life, to rescue him. But the Chitauri never dabble in bargains when it comes to traitors. If this is the case, Loki is as good as dead, if not worse.

Thor wilts under his grief until a very particular sort of conversation reaches his ears from the table behind him.

"You're turnin down the job? Why?"

A deeper voice responds, "That place will be crawling with Cerael soon. They don't take too kindly to Eudorians." Thor strains to listen.

"I heard quite a sum was put up for the capture. The Chitauri sure are generous folk."

The Chitauri! Without a second thought, Thor is on his feet, upending his chair. "Who is the bounty for?"

Gruffly, "Cool your engine, Colossus. This is none of your business."

Thor reaches within his cloak and produces Mjolnir. He brandishes it towards them. "I am Thor, blooded heir to the throne of Asgard, and you will tell me who the bounty is for!"

The yellow-eyed man with the medallion and his hairy companion raise their hands in surrender. "It's a magician. A sorcerer of some kind."

Thor's heart races. Loki has not been captured. Thank Allfather. He steels his expression, but he is certain his renewed hope is practically pulsating from his eyes. "Where?" he demands.

"Earth," he stammers.

"That's ridiculous!" he booms, his voice like thunder. "He would never return to Midgard!" Thor never thought to look there. He never - … "Of course…" Thor all but laughs. That is exactly where he would go! Because Loki knew he would never look there!

"They've already sent three of us. None of them returned." Thor grins at his brother's cunning. Surely, it is Loki.

"We got no beef with you, prince," one of them stammers.

Thor's brows knit together curiously. "What were you saying before that? About the Cerael?"

The hairy one shakes his head pointedly. "We weren't sayin no-"

Thor slams his hammer down on the table, coils his fist in the Eudorian's shirt, and yanks him to his feet. They are easier to deal with in human form. "Tell me!" he commands, pointing his hammer at the hairy one who raises his hands again.

"Alright, alright." He looks to his friend and back again. "Just rumors really, none of them good. They got some problem with their atmosphere, the Cerael. They can't live on Ceras no more. So they've decided to invade Earth and take the planet for themselves."

Thor shakes his head in disbelief. "Why Midgard?"

"Cause of their metal man," The Eudorian chokes, squirming in Thor's grasp. "The problems are his fault."

"The warhead," Thor whispers under his breath. He must warn SHIELD! He drops the Eudorian. Thor holsters his hammer and takes a satchel of gold coins from his pocket. He passes it into the Eudorian's hand – the rest of his provisions for his stay on Taldo. He looks between them, keeping his voice low. "Divide it amongst yourselves. Three for the maid. And thank you." He turns on his heel and strides out of the establishment.

* * *

Rogers awakens to a soft, muffled sound. He immediately sits up, poised for action. He decided to lay on top of the blankets, since the room was warm enough without them, and as not to make it awkward for Lola.

The light makes it easy to tell that room is empty. Rogers tried several times to turn the bedside lamp off, but for some reason Lola kept turning it on again. She is no longer beside him. Rogers, for the most part, has accepted that what transpired earlier was some sort of hallucination. He will need to be extra alert from now on. He never wants to deal with that hound again. Rogers strains to listen, hearing the same soft sound. He puts his feet on the floor and quietly crosses the room. The bathroom light is on. He stands there for a moment, listening.

"Go away, Steve," says a tart, ragged voice from inside.

Rogers is taken aback. He clears his throat. "Are you alright?"

"Go away, Steve," she repeats more steadily.

"I can only go so far," he replies defensively, gesturing towards the room as if she can see him do so. Rogers feels as though any progress he made getting closer to Lola is gone. He does not understand why and it saddens him greatly. He is worried. He does not know what to think. He doubts himself, doubts his very own eyes and other senses. Rogers' brow furrows. He decides against humoring her. Instead of going back to bed, he turns and sits down on the floor, the breadth of his back braced against the door. He folds his arms indomitably.

He can hear Lola sigh in annoyance. She sniffs.

* * *

The door rattles as Rogers roosts just outside. Lola rolls her eyes and wipes her face angrily. Despite her raging hatred for him, for everyone at the moment, Lola cannot bring herself to leave Rogers. He is the closest thing she has to protection and right now, she is clinging to the semblance safety in his presence, even if it is only fleeting.

She sits in the empty bathtub, the farthest she can get from the sink. While being in here makes her ill, she has no other place for privacy in their suite, aside from the closet… which has an irritating shelf inside that makes it nigh impossible to move around. She yanks the shower curtain closed.

After a few long moments, "Why do you do it?" she blurts out.

"Do what?" Steve asks.

"Stay with me!" she snaps, barely able to keep her voice from breaking. She hugs her knees tightly. "I've been unkind. I've said awful things and ignored you and treated you horribly."

"I have a duty."

"That's what I thought," she mumbles.

* * *

Rogers can hardly breathe, the conversation taking him completely by surprise. He has not prepared, has not even fantasized about what he would say if ever given the chance to say it. There is something like disappointment in her voice. Rogers knows he is not telling her the whole truth. Then again, "There's something you're not telling me." He tries at bargaining. "I won't tell you the reason until you tell me what it is."

"Then I'll never know."

He swallows. "Why won't you let me in?"

Sharply, "Because I want privacy, you blithering idiot."

Rogers cracks a smile, resting the back of his skull on the door. "I don't mean into the bathroom." She does not respond. He can imagine the sour look plastered across her beautiful face. "You don't have to tell me. I'm still always going to protect you… for as long as I can." His smile fades. "And I know I haven't done the most upstanding job… and I'm sorry," he remits sincerely. "I don't know what happened earlier or what you saw. I don't know if you're alright. But I would do anything to have stayed with you. I should have stayed with you. I thought-" He stops abruptly when the door opens and the support behind his shoulders is removed. He tumbles backwards, landing at her feet.

* * *

Rogers looks up at her, his sad, puppy-like blue eyes locked on an upside-down view of her face. She tries to stay composed, turning her inner anger outward. "The amount of responsibility you assume makes me sick. As if you could be held accountable for anything when you thought I was dead." She cannot stand the angelic way her regards her. She switches off the bathroom light and steps over him, curbing the urge to step_ on_ him. She marches back towards the bed.

Lola goes to Rogers' small bag. She rummages around until she unearths one of his shirts. She yanks it out, finds the hem, and pulls it on. She practically swims in it, the cuffed sleeves engulfing her hands. She climbs back into bed, and curls up on her side, fixing Rogers in a glare. Rogers, who is propped up on his elbows by now, smirks at her. His expression is exuding so much warmth that she wants to vomit.

Rogers finds his feet and walks around her to his side of the bed. She feels the springs give under his weight as he lays down behind her. After a few seconds, she sits up enough to reach over and switch off the lamp on her nightstand. She curls up again, determined not to let the shadows make a fool of her. She tenses when she feels something wrap around her. She glances down, seeing Roger's arm roped around her waist. She is still for some time, considering.

Lola twists towards him and nestles in beneath his chin. His one armed embrace tightens a bit, almost tethering her to him. Somehow, Lola knows nothing can touch her now. Safely out of his line of vision, she allows herself a small smile. She closes her eyes and falls asleep.


	7. Episode 7 Interesting Theory

Not for the first time, Lola is experiencing conflicting feelings about her ingenious plan. After much deliberation, she has determined that Vyctraes dispatched the red-cloaked wraith, for lack of a better term, to frighten her into joining her cause. Apparently, three days is an unacceptable length of time to expect a Queen to wait. Her tactics have worked, however disinclined Lola is to admit defeat. She is afraid. However, she is more so afraid of herself than of Vyctraes. Lola loathes her birthright. She loathes her true heritage. And yet, that was precisely what saved her the night prior. It leapt out of her like a waiting predator. Lola has been ruthless in the past, but never quite to that caliber.

He deserved every bit.

Still…

She knows that inside, Rogers is a mess, but cannot bring herself to tell him the truth without exposing everything. He is more logical than Thor and has trouble swallowing things without concrete evidence.

Rogers.

That insufferable twat has somehow weaseled his way into her head… and other crucial organs. She woke up in his arms this morning and nearly sprang halfway across the room in alarm. She steals a glance at him from the corner of her eyes. He looks more cheerful than usual, despite the troubled state of his mind. She catches him smiling to himself more often, like the bungling idiot he is. Then again, that may be because she never paid much attention to him prior to now. He is rather handsome in this light. In fact, he is rather handsome in any light. The way he took responsibility for the tragic events was endearing. She can guess at the motive for his endless patience with her, but chooses once again to ignore it.

Lola is beginning to wonder how long she can keep up this charade. She is in very deep indeed and she has dragged Rogers down with her. That should not matter. She should not give a hog's arse about Steve's lappy sappy feelings. Perhaps she should join the Empress… Obviously, her powers are extensive.

Should she choose the alternative, there is only one place Lola will be protected from Vyctraes and her goons. There is only one group of individuals stupid enough to try, who also have a slim chance, at thwarting her. Lola cannot believe she is going to rely on the Avengers once again. Granted, she did basically the same thing when she surrendered in Germany… and in Manhattan. Asgard is wonderfully ripe with defenses. Albeit the threat of losing her powers, she would have been glad to sit in that cell indefinitely.

Lola cannot join the Empress. She will not join her. She will pitch her headlong into a pit of fire is what she will do. Her transgression is unforgivable. Lola doubts the assailant was supposed to reveal who sent him. She was probably supposed to think the Chitauri were responsible. In that event, Lola probably would have ended up siding with the Empress. Clever wretch.

Lola still despises the Avengers as a whole, a band of reckless heroes gallivanting about, spoiling everyone else's well laid plans. She does not despise Steve anymore though. Also, she knows now that there is no possible way she can murder Thor. Seeing his body like that, hallucination or not, was nearly more than she could bear. As a frost giant sorceress, ineloquence of the title notwithstanding, Lola is very powerful. She is even more powerful than the Asgardian god she was raised to be. However, embracing such a repulsive veneer leaves a bad taste in her mouth. Blue looks dreadful on her. Moreover, she does not appreciate being compared to that hideous Mystique character.

Lola is not a superhero. She hardly knows if she is even a villain anymore, if she was ever truly a villain. After all this time with Rogers, the black hatred from before is much harder to recall. Her scheme has worked so well that she practically fooled herself. Curses. Perhaps the best course of action is no course of action. She will keep quiet about her knowledge of the Cerael's impending invasion. And then, when the Avengers dash off to meet them in battle, she will use to diversion to sneak away.

Sneak away to where?

She cannot expect Heimdall to open the Bifrost to her. He's still a bit peeved about the whole ice cube incident. Without the Bifrost, she will need other transportation, but Earth is not well enough along in its pursuit of ultimate science to join the rest of the galaxy in space yet. Lola sinks lower into her seat. For all intents and purposes, she is stuck here.

Unless…

Unless she can steal a ship from the Cerael. That would mean venturing dangerously close to the battle and putting herself in a compromising position, but it is what must be done. She will leave Earth to its fate and let the Avengers and Cerael kill each other to their heart's content. This is assuming that the Avengers do not procure her true identity, she has the means to get to a ship, and she has the skills necessary to fly it. Perhaps an instruction manual? She also must evade attacks from both sides whilst trying to operate the contraption.

This is giving her a headache.

Everything was so simple: Turn into a woman, lie a lot, kill the Avengers. All was going splendidly until Vyctraes had to float in botch it. Now things are complicated and painful and-

"Here we are," Rogers announces as they emerge into what must be the smallest Earth village Lola has ever seen. She sits up in her seat and studies the stout buildings and the odd collection of people meandering their way around. Lola is plainly unimpressed. The village has hardly changed since she saw it through the Destroyer's eyes. She cannot fathom why SHIELD would choose to have a base here. To top it all off, she will be forced to abide in the same room as that infernal Foster woman. And that bumbling imbecile with the eye patch will grill her with thousands of questions. And the red headed hellion will probably pull a similar stunt to get her to talk.

Suddenly, she wishes she and Rogers were at the beginning of their excursion. He is quiet and kind and effortless to mislead. Life with him is simple and easy and - Lola blinks and a horrified look appears on her face. What is she saying?

* * *

SHIELD has made several modifications to Foster's laboratory. For one, they constructed an underground bunker with roughly three levels, two for workspace and one for storage, to better conceal classified activity. Small town folks are always curious about what everyone else is up to. SHIELD does not need anyone accidentally stumbling on secrets they cannot keep.

The majority of the Initiative stands on the observation deck on the level just below the laboratory. At the moment, they are in casual attire with the exception of Nick Fury, who always wears the same black trench coat. Romanoff has her arms folded, gazing out of the one way window at the woman in the interrogation room below. She shakes her head. "I've ran the name Lola Lancaster through every database in every country. By our accounts, she doesn't exist."

"An alias?" Barton suggests.

Fury looks unconvinced. "For what? What do we have that she wants? The last thing of value we possessed is locked away in Asgard's vault."

Natasha turns to Steve. "What do you think Captain? You've spent the most time with her."

Rogers shakes his head, the entire conversation seriously dampening his spirits. "I don't think Lola's after the Tesseract. She hasn't mentioned anything about it or referred to it once. This makes no sense…"

Stark claps his hand on Steve's shoulder. "Cheer up, Capsicle. An imaginary girlfriend is better than none at all."

Before Steve can counter Stark's remark, Banner speaks up. His voice is distant, as though he is deep in thought. "As least, she doesn't exist on Earth."

Fury raises his eyebrows, displaying interest in that suggestion. "Go on."

Banner speaks with his hands, gesturing accordingly. "Maybe she doesn't want anything. Maybe she's hiding. An alien refugee comes to Earth to blend in, seeking to escape other… aliens."

As Fury inclines his chin, "Interesting theory."

Banner shrugs, wading through other possibilities. "Not one to toot my own horn… but I would imagine the lot of us are not as anonymous as we used to be." He shoots a pointed glance at Stark.

"What? You think she read about us in the interplanetary tabloids?" Stark retorts nonchalantly. "Thought we'd make good bodyguards?"

It is obvious by the way that Jane is chewing on the lid of her pen and tapping her foot that she wants to say something. Instead, Romanoff steps forward. "We should summon Thor." Jane scrambles to pick up her notepad. Natasha ignores her surprise and continues, "He has a lot more experience with intergalactic issues like this. If she's notorious in any way, he'll know who she is."

Jane opens her mouth to speak, but Tony is faster. Stark nods, shaking his finger. "I agree. Get Baywatch here ASAP."

Jane, apparently seeing no other option to be recognized, raises her hand.

"Yes, Ms. Foster?" Fury acknowledges, trying to contain his exasperation.

"How, um… How exactly do we go about doing that? I've been trying for a very long time to establish some sort of connection by way of constellational alignment because I miss him so much, but this whole influx of cosmic energy has sort of put that research on hold since January and I haven't gotten terribly far so-" She suddenly remembers there are other people in the room. She clears her throat. "I don't have the means to contact Thor, sir."

"Can't we just wish him here?" Stark proposes.

"He's not a genie," Jane bristles, hugging her book.

"Mr. Banner and Mr. Stark will assist you. Perhaps, with Stark's inventive advertising skills and Banner's flamboyant knack for getting attention, no offense Bruce," Banner shrugs, "we can come up with something." Fury pauses. He turns his head towards the observation window. "In the meantime, I want all of you to use extreme caution around this woman. Until we know more about her, she is not to be trusted. Personal contact should be minimal."

Rogers tries to steel his expression, having been dreading that exact command since the beginning of this meeting. Stark jumps at the opportunity to be a nuisance. With mock sympathy, "That sucks big guy. You finally meet a dame and she turns out to be a cosmic felon."

Natasha frowns sternly. "We don't know that yet."

"She seems pretty suspicious to me," Banner mumbles.

Barton sits forward in his chair. "I second that notion. I'm sorry Cap. She shows up out of the blue, knowing nearly everything about the initiative, and manages to convince you she's in danger, stringing you along under the belief you're protecting her, when she might actually be the villain. If I know anything, Bounty Hunters, alien or not, have a reason they are contracted. She knows more than she's telling us."

"And she's expensive."

"Stark," Natasha warns. Rogers shoulders past him and leaves the room.

"Steve!" he hears behind him as Jane erupts from the same door. Rogers ignores her and continues down the hallway. He would rather be alone at the moment. "Steve, wait!" Jane races up to him and plants herself directly in his path, bringing him to an untimely halt. Rogers sighs, plainly disheartened. He looks into Jane's face, surprised and slightly disturbed by her giddy expression. Exuberantly, "I need you to do me a _big _favor."

* * *

Rogers pushes the door open, emerging into the room where Lola is being held. It is a tall concrete chamber, lacking any color or warmth. Rogers immediately hates it. He is overcome with guilt, having accompanied her all this way for protection only to be locked up in a dungeon as though she is a prisoner. She has been kept in here for two hours in complete seclusion. It is his fault. He should have prepared her for this.

He is pleasantly surprised when Lola smiles at him. That in itself is a testament to how lonely she is, as Lola rarely smiles at him. He wants to embrace her, but refrains, even when she stands and moves to meet him halfway across the room.

"Steve," she greets, her eyes twinkling, the green in them more radiant than ever. He smiles back. There are two fresh cups of caramel coffee in his hands. He offers one to her. She accepts it, even going as far as to look pleased about having it.

"How are you?" he asks, nauseated by the absurd question as soon as it passes his lips. He should have thought of something better to say.

She shrugs haplessly. "I'm fine." She nods towards the table and chairs. Rogers follows and chooses the seat beside her. She angles her chair towards him slightly. She blows on the coffee for a moment and takes a sip.

"Do you like it?" he wonders aloud. Sheepishly, "I wasn't exactly sure how you take your coffee."

Lola takes another drink. "I like it very much." She holds the cup in her lap. "Any news?" she asks. "I was actually expecting Fury. No one has come to see me as of yet." With some difficulty, "Should I be worried? Have I done something wrong?"

_You tell me_, Rogers wants to say. Instead, he smirks and shakes his head. "Naw. Everyone's just up in arms about some energy issue. This whole confinement thing should be over soon. You're safe here though. You know that, right?" She nods. He is not convinced. He sets his jaw and swallows hard. Steve reaches out and lays his hand on hers, the touch sending a shock through his system. She looks up at him, seeming just as surprised. With conviction, "I promised you we would figure this out. I won't stop until we do."

After heavy pause, "I know." She puts her cup down on the tabletop and sandwiches Steve's hand between hers. She changes the subject. "I imagine there are cameras recording my every move in here," she poses, cringing playfully. "It's a little unnerving."

"I switched them off for now. It's just you and me," he reassures, giving her hand a squeeze. Granted, the observation window is still open, but the deck will be receiving no sound, should anyone happen upon them.

"… In that case." She looks down, her thumb tracing meaningless patterns on his skin. "Captain Rogers… I want to thank you for all you've done for me, and what you've risked to get me here." She takes a deep breath. "Without your help, I would probably be dead."

Steve gazes at her, simultaneously experiencing the thrill of her gratitude and the dread of her reasons for it. "Do you know why they're after you?" Lola goes quiet and casts her eyes downward again. He can see her jaw working anxiously behind the line of her lips. Gradually, she begins to nod. Roger's heart leaps. "Will you tell me?" The woman answers with a deliberate shake of her head. The action is sobering. "Ok," he relents gently. With a warm smirk, "Let's talk about something else."

* * *

Jane, with Rogers in tow, makes a beeline for Fury. He stands with his back to her, talking with a subordinate, a member of the SHIELD security team. "Sir," she says quietly.

Fury does not hear her. "I want you to set up a perimeter around these coordinates. The incidences seem to be concentrated in this area."

She tries again. "Sir."

"Report directly to me, should you see or experience anything abnormal."

Rogers coughs, "Fury," and coughs again. He clears his throat.

Fury turns around. Rogers nods towards Jane. Fury, who does not notice her until he looks down, assumes an expectant expression. He rolls his shoulders and folds his hands behind his back. "Yes, Ms. Foster?"

She smiles uncertainly, like a child with a confession to make. "I know you said I shouldn't run any tests without the subject's permission but-"

"You did it anyway," he finishes in monotone.

She nods vigorously. "I used a sample off the coffee cup Steve gave her."

Fury shoots Rogers a look. "You're an accomplice in this?"

He shrugs helplessly and gestures towards Jane. "She's very persuasive."

"Oh it's fine! He was looking for an excuse to spend time with her anyway!" Jane dismisses eagerly. Rogers, flushing darkly, feigns interest in another computer screen. Jane maneuvers around Fury and hurries to lay a readout across the table.

Fury decides to deal with Rogers later. He scans the document. "What am I looking at, Jane?"

Jane practically sings, "The chemical composition of Lola's DNA." Fury blinks and surveys the chart. Jane, impatient in her excitement, lays another readout beside it. "This is the chemical composition of Thor's DNA." Fury can see the similarities in the numbers. For the most part, the charts are identical.

"So, you believe Lola is an Asgardian?" Fury derives.

Jane chances a glance at Steve and then looks back at Fury. "I don't think she's just _any_ Asgardian." She points to a mark on the graph of Lola's chart. "She has extremely high levels of CO2 in her system."

"Carbon Dioxide," Fury says. Deadpan, "Shall I put her on oxygen then?"

Jane looks flustered when he does not take her hints. "No! CO2. In solid form, it's the chemical formula for dry ice. And-" She flips Lola's chart over, revealing two pictures. "This is what her cells look like at a microscopic level." She indicates a photograph of relatively human looking cells. "Most of the time, they look like this. Like Thor's. But every once in awhile, a strange flash would pass across the viewer. I thought I had a faulty microscope until I got a good picture." Then, she points to the second image. The cells are blue with jagged edges. Fury examines them with interest. "Listen. Thor told me stories about creatures called Frost Giants. And how his father Odin conquered them in a great war."

"You're losing me, Jane."

"Listen!" she insists. "That same day, Odin took a child off their home planet of Jotunhiem… and raised him as his own. Sir," she shakes her head, looking at the chart once more, "if I'm reading this right… and this is indeed a picture of Frost Giant cells… I think Lola… is…"

* * *

Banner chokes mid-sip into his chamomile tea.

Stark is shaking his head. "… Oh, that's just wrong."

Banner looks like he's about to be ill. Hoarsely, "Someone, please, bleach my eyes."

"Actually, it's brilliant," Natasha remits blatantly. She is in full uniform now. "I've donned a lot of disguises in my day, but nothing that elaborate."

Banner, who has finished coughing, motions towards the window. "So what do we do with him? Her? It?"

Rogers abruptly steps forward. "I really think she's changed." By the level of sincerity in his voice, he means it. The team studies him quizzically. "I-"

Banner adopts a surly frown. "You don't seem all that surprised about this."

"Or severely creeped out," Stark chips in.

Fury turns to face Rogers in full. His brows knit together and he fixes Steve in his most demanding leer. He asks a question he has been wondering for some time. "Rogers. Did you know?"

Rogers grits his teeth. He averts his eyes and shrugs in a hopeless way. "When we met… she called me the Man Out of Time. Only one person has ever called me that. I didn't think much of it at first." With great effort, "Yeah. I began to suspect after awhile, after all those strange things started happening. Granted, no amount of suspecting could have prepared me for the truth but... I guess a part of me always knew."

After a painfully silent pause, "So, what are you? Gay?"

"Stark!" Jane exclaims.

"I mean that's fine," he hastily adds. "We accept you for who you are. We all know Natasha's a lesbian."

"What?" Natasha demands, incensed.

Stark blinks innocently. "You're not?"

"So what do we do with _Loki_?" Banner interrupts.

Fury leers out of the window. "For now, we do nothing. We should pretend that we don't know, lead her to believe she fooled us. She might know something about the influx of cosmic energy. The only way to win a game with Loki is to stay a step ahead of him. Her," he corrects.

Natasha promptly turns on her heel and proceeds towards the stairs. Blankly, "_You_ can pretend you don't know."

"Tasha!" Barton moves to go after her. Rogers stops him. "Aren't you the one who said his disguise is brilliant?" he calls after her.

As she disappears down the stairwell, "Just because I'm impressed doesn't mean she gets off scot-free."

Lola looks up when Romanoff pushes the door open and strides inside. The door hits the wall and slams shut with a loud, cavernous boom. Lola rises from her seat and takes a few steps back, the determination in Natasha's wake making her apprehensive. "We have a score to settle," Natasha announces, unclipping her black ammunition belt and tossing it aside. Natasha plants the crook of her boot on the edge of the interrogation table and shoves it towards Lola, who in turn stops it cold with the toe of her own heel.

"Do we now?" Lola asks velvety.

Natasha cracks her knuckles. Bluntly, "You called me the medieval equivalent of cunt."

Above, Barton, Jane, Rogers, and Banner go slack jawed. Fury's face sinks into his hand.

Lola masks her shock with a grin. Natasha is referring to her "mewling quim" comment. She knows. "Clever girl." Lola shoves the table back at her with tremendous force. Romanoff leaps up and steps over it, landing on the other side as the table crashes against the door, crunched between the entry walls. It jams, barring the only entrance and exit. Lola assumes the absence of Natasha's gun means she expects her not to use magic.

Lola walks towards her, in high heels no less, and spreads her arms, fingers splayed, dogging her. "Have a go then."

Natasha lashes out with a high kick. Lola blocks it with her wrist. Natasha punches. Lola parries. Natasha punches again. Lola deflects. Natasha drops and sweeps her foot in a wide arc. Lola slips and delivers a fierce kick to Natasha's jaw. She falls, but uses the momentum to spring back up. Natasha kicks out, straight into Lola's chest. She slides backwards until she hits a chair. Lola gets to her feet, grabs the chair, and flings it at Natasha, who barely ducks in time to avoid it.

Above, Stark stands beside Rogers, his mouth agape. "Stevie, you get the kiddy pool. I'll get the pudding."

Natasha throws a roundhouse kick. Lola hooks her by the heel, turns, and hurls her into the wall. Natasha gets up and approaches her. They circle one another for a moment until Lola lashes out with the flat of her hand. Natasha dodges, reaches her own hand out, snags Lola by the hair, and thrusts her forward into the chair. Lola's head snaps back when it hits the edge. She slumps to the floor and groans. Natasha reaches down, seizes Lola's ankle, and reels her in. As Lola flips over on her back, she slams the top of her foot into Natasha's ribs with enough force to make her stumble aside. Lola rolls back over her shoulder into a crouch.

They right themselves and smirk at one another. Natasha lands a punch into Lola's cheek. They exchange more punches. Lola knees her in the gut. Natasha shoves her, steels herself, spins, and throws a high roundhouse kick. Lola drops low and sweeps her foot in a wide arc, knocking Natasha down. Natasha, infuriated that Lola used her own move against her, lunges at Lola and locks her hands around her throat. They squirm and struggle.

"Are you done?" Fury's voice broadcasts over the intercom. The women stare at one another for a moment. Lola regards her warily. Natasha slowly relinquishes her hold on Lola's neck. She rises and wipes her wrist over her bloody lips. Lola does the same under her nose. Natasha extends her hand. Lola looks between the peace offering and the red headed hellion skeptically. She clasps her hand. Natasha helps her up. She nods. Lola nods back.

* * *

Fury and Lola are alone in the interrogation room. She is dabbing the last of the blood away from her nose. He advances. "Alright Loki. Lola. Whatever, or whoever, you are. Here's my offer." He bends at the hips and lays his gloved hands on the armrests of her chair, encroaching into her personal space. She leans back as far as she can, trapped by the back of the chair. "I acknowledge that here on Earth, we haven't the means to detain you. But that doesn't mean I'm going to overlook the last little stunt you pulled. So, as it stands, either you tell us everything you know about what's going on, or we'll ship you straight back to Asgard."

Lola inclines her chin, unabashed and self-assured. "You haven't the power," she challenges in a hiss.

"Thor does," Fury shoots back dangerously.

Lola frowns. "Thor is not here. So, how about_ I_ issue my demands. I will tell you everything I know about your little invasion problem and you will allow me to depart, by whatever means I deem necessary. When I do leave, you will not hinder me in any way."

Fury sets his jaw and tightens his leathery grip on the chair. He is leering at her with his special breed of one-eyed hatred.

He releases Lola from the holding cell and leads her up the stairwell through the observation area, past the one-way window and the generators. They ascend another set of stairs to the main research department where the rest of the initiative stands around a table, with the exception of Jane. They all turn and regard her with a mix of disgust and curiosity, save for Rogers, who admires her in the helpless manner he always has. Lola will have to worry about him later. Apparently, the entire team knows. She does not understand why he too does not look upon her with repugnance.

Lola approaches the table and surveys the collection of materials spread over the surface. There are assorted data charts, foreign metals, and intercepted letters. She pulls a map of the country from the clutter and opens it over the mess. "The enemy you are about to face hails from the planet Ceras. The Cerael are distant cousins of the Frost Giants. They will most likely surround the country and proceed inward, as moving coast to coast leaves fugitives open to outside aid."

"Like a cage," Natasha likens, keeping her face carefully anesthetized. "Like herding sheep."

"Precisely. It is my assumption they will commence the extermination with the most heavily mechanized nations. Indigenous peoples stand little chance without advanced weaponry and will be easily put down."

"They have the numbers to do that?" Rogers marvels in horror.

"It's an army the size of an entire planet. Yes, Steve. They have the numbers. The outermost layer of their skin is a hyper cooled sheath of protective trans-plasma. It appears to be glass-like, but believe me. It is more gelatinous than solid. It is strong enough to withstand and absorb an enormous amount of force and radiates a faint blue light."

"So the glow-sticks have their own built in armor," Fury grumbles.

"So do I," Stark pipes up.

"These _glow-sticks_ will not be as easily defeated as the Chitauri," Lola says.

Stark corrects her. "Hey now. That was_ not_ easy."

Lola flashes a tart smirk at him, pleased with the confession. She continues, "Their Empress, Vyctraes, came to me several days ago and told me she means to take the planet to save her race, as Ceras has become uninhabitable, thanks to a certain tin-"

A booming voice stops her cold. "My friends!" All heads whirl in the direction of the entrance. A picture of brawn is striding towards them purposefully, his cloak billowing behind him. As his sunlit silhouette draws nearer, Lola can see the blonde of his hair and the cerulean glow of his eyes. "Midgard is in grave danger! The Cerael Empress is amassing a great army to take the planet! She means to obliterate the human race as penance for-" Less than fifteen paces from the group, Thor stops. The space between Barton and Banner is just wide enough. He sees her.

She fills her chest. The sudden, silent breath is immensely painful. Tears flood her eyes. Lola grasps desperately for the hatred that no longer abides in her. Slowly, all eyes turn to Lola and the small sea of people parts. There she stands, rooted to the floor, oblivious to anyone else. From the looks of it, Thor is just as paralyzed. If he breathes, she cannot see it. It is not long before she realizes she is holding her breath as well. A light like the dawn comes into his face. There is no point in denying it. She is not fooling him. She has never fooled _him_.

Thor already knows.


	8. Episode 8 In One Piece

Thor and Lola stare at one another, unblinking.

The rest of the initiative is practically suffocating under the tension. Stark 's eyes dart between the two Asgardians. "Oh snap."

Fury clears his throat. Lowly, "We'll, uh, leave you two to _catch up_." He begins to usher the team out. As an indolent afterthought, "Try not to break anything. Or each other. We need the both of you in one piece for now." Lola can hear the shuffling of feet and the rub of fabric as the members make their way towards the stairs. "Rogers," Fury prompts, sounding farther away than before. Lola's eyes remain fixated on Thor. She hears the thuds of Fury's boots as he backtracks and approaches Steve, who stands steadfast as a pillar in place, unwilling to budge. "Captain," Fury prompts again. Lola hears a second set of lighter, quicker steps.

"Captain…" Natasha directs, with a little more sentimental inflection than Fury, "Stand down. Come on." She gives his arm two gentle tugs. Fury escorts Romanoff and Rogers out. They close the hatch to the underground level.

Thor drops his hammer. It dents the concrete floor with a great boom. He takes a tentative step in Lola's direction. "Loki?" he whispers. "Is it truly-?" Lola inclines her chin enough to feign the confidence she does not feel. Thor swallows thickly. He looks her over as he draws nearer, securitizing every curve, his eyes repeatedly drawn to her chest. "What happened to you?" He tries at a joke that is ill timed. With half a smile, "Of all the ways I thought I might find you, in all the places, I never expected-"

Lola's eyes dry on their own. Defensively, "_Yes_, I am a woman." She hisses, "Save the slighted banter."

Thor pauses abruptly as though he has been slapped. He tries again. "How… Why-?"

It takes everything Lola has left to stand before him when all her gut instinct wants to do is crumble to the ground and weep. "I did not have a multitude of options after my last narrow escape. You are not the only one hunting me, you know." She emphasizes that last sentence as if it is a victory for her.

"I do," he acknowledges. She does not ask him to elaborate. His forehead wrinkles endearingly. "Do you wish to know of our father?"

"_Your _father," she reminds him for the fourth time. Naturally, he wants to broach the subject of Odin. He has absolutely nothing to say about the two of them – the foremost preoccupation of her mind and heart for what feels like an eternity. Venomously, "And no."

Thor tells her anyway. "He is healing. He should be at full strength again soon. We can mend this. Somehow, we can amend this." He has no idea what he is saying.

He is venturing too near. Any closer and she will melt like molten lead into his eyes. She steps aside, angling her body to keep him constantly in her sights. This does not deter him. He resumes his approach. She retreats, their steps spiraling towards the equipment grid. "How unfortunate," she seethes. "But fear not, blooded heir. He will die eventually."

Thor frowns in earnest. "Why must you say things like this?"

"We all die, Thor," she taunts mercilessly.

He grits his teeth. "You speak as though_ you_ control the Allfather's fate-"

Lola erupts, the underlying rage lashing out at him. Vehemently, "The Allfather sealed his _fate_ the day he plucked me from my cradle!"

Thor shakes his head and steels his expression. "The words you speak are cruel!" he hollers.

"The things you do are worse."

"What are you talking about? What things?" It makes her livid that he does not know, that he can stand there and look so bewildered by something so obvious. His eyes lock on the budding bruises on her face and the lingering red under her nose. "You have been wounded." He reaches out hesitantly.

"How astute of you," she snaps. Her pride is swelling to hide the urge to cling to him. She fists her hands.

"Why are you _here_? How are you here?" He cannot decide on a question. He glances back at the hatch. "Why… They have accepted you?"

Her knuckles turn white. Her fingernails are biting into her palms. "Don't sound so surprised that I still have the potential to be valuable."

Thor looks stung. His blue eyes sadden and it feels as though there is a fist inside Lola's chest. "What have I done, what evil have I brought you, that has given you cause to hate me so?"

Lola stammers for a moment, as though the question is humorous. "_What_ evil?" she all but laughs. Her maddened expression thaws. She gazes at him blankly, her fists unfolding, her arms hanging limp at her sides. She begins to shake her head. She feels weak. There is much pain in her face. Her lips quiver as she presses them together. Suddenly, "I cannot hate you because you know nothing of hatred!" she chokes. "Or envy! Or worthlessness!" The word calls tears to her eyes. "Thus, you_ cannot_ understand, haven't the perspective, the propensity, to comprehend the circumstances of that which ails me. _Oh_ but Thor, you _know _arrogance. Ever since childhood, you were entitled to everything. Nothing was denied you. No matter what is was you wanted, you acquired it with ease." The volume of her voice is steadily rising. Everything she has been withholding gushes out like blood from a mortal wound. "But no matter what I did, you never saw me the same as yourself! Never measured me by the same standing! I submitted to you because you would accept nothing else!"She clenches her fists and clutches them close to her chest, breaking before his eyes. "And for awhile, for the few most wonderful years of my life I galled myself into believing it worked. I was yours." She opens her hands. "But you were never mine."

Thor, struck speechless and nearly in tears himself, advances and seizes her arm. She wrenches away. "Do not touch me!" she yells. She recoils, nearly stumbling. She whimpers in spite of herself. "And there I sat telling myself I was _so_ in control, a commanding force over a future king I could puppet into believing he loved me. But all it took to sever the strings was for _that_ **woman** to enter into your heart, into a place I could never fill! In a matter of days, not years, but **days**… you were gone! And fathoms damned, I cannot despise you for it because you know not what you do." The tears spill over her eyes and down her cheeks. Even as she is telling this to him, she is admitting a new truth to herself. "You are so wonderfully wise… and so profoundly naive. I cannot hold you in contempt for thievery because, like a **fool**, I willingly surrendered _everything_ unto you. I love you because I cannot hate you. Instead, I hate myself because you will never love me!"

A soft thud and an astonished, "Thor?" makes Lola whip her watery attention towards Jane who has just dropped two boxes of pizza on the floor. Beside her, gawking stupidly, are two SHIELD agents who carry the remainder, and majority, of the other boxes. Lola wheels around and strides out of the research laboratory in the other direction. She does not look back, even when she hears Thor call, "Loki!" She wants to run, but her pride will not allow it.

She passes through the laboratory and emerges into the dessert land that yawns ahead, sun baked sand, rocky crags, and daunting mesas rolling on for miles. The sun is close to the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant oranges and pinks that are lost on her grief. Lola rips the earrings from her lobes and flings them into the dust. She falters when her heel wedges into a crack in the ground. Lola yanks them off and hurls them away, blinded by tears and irritation.

"Lola!" she hears. She ignores it and marches onward. "Lola!" It is Rogers' voice. She shakes her head and walks faster. "**Loki**!"

Wide eyed, Lola wheels around. "Don't you dare address me by that name! You haven't the standing to refer to me BY _THAT_ NAME!" she shrieks.

"It's Thor?" Steve demands, catching his breath, his expression a mixture of pain and panic. He stands glowing in the golden light, the blue of his eyes blazing at her. "The man you mentioned… is Thor?" Stark's party seems like a lifetime ago. Lola snarls and throws her hands up. She whirls around and walks onward. Her blouse flutters in the gentle gust that stirs the dirt. "Wait! Please!"

His persistence is fraying the last of her nerves. "You know the truth! Just leave me be!"

Lola has only a fraction of strength left to struggle when Rogers seizes her arm and twirls her towards him, locking his hands around her elbows. Sternly, "Let me help you."

"You cannot command me!" she shouts back up into his face.

Rogers, for the first time, raises his voice at her. "I don't command! It's a suggestion!"

Blindsided by the flashback that conjures, she is powerless to stop the fresh tears that spring to her eyes. In a last desperate attempt to make him loath her, "Give up, Soldier of Fortune. I will never love you," she spits out.

"Why not?"

"BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT THOR!" she screams.

Rogers grasp is unrelenting, keeping her suspended on the tips of her toes. "NO! I'M NOT!" he bellows back. "I will never be Thor! And you will never be Peggy!" He is breathing hard. His expression is dark and determined. "But come hell or high water, I will _always_ be Steve Rogers! And I will never stop trying to get you to see that I can heal you if you only let me in!" His grip tightens and he shakes her with a short jolt. "You think I don't know pain? That I don't know how you feel?"

His grip burns with strength. She tries to lurch away. He only pulls her closer. "You haven't the slightest inkling-!"

"Oh, but I do! I know _exactly_ what it's like to be an outcast, to feel ostracized and utterly alone, and to lose a loved one! You lost yours because he fell for Jane. I lost mine because she **died**!" The impregnable sorrow in Lola's face changes. He has reached her. She watches him through wider, watery eyes, stunned into silence. She is numb to the breeze on her face. Her gaze tracks between his eyes, as if she is seeing him for the first time. She no longer struggles. Steve does not yell anymore. "Man, woman, Asgardian, Frost Giant, hero, villain, Loki, or Lola… You're not alone. Whether you like it or not, I'm holding up my end of the bargain. I will stay with you until we figure this out. And if I have my way, that might just take forever."

* * *

The sun is gone. Thor is alone in the bunking sector on the lower level. Slouched over his knees, he buries his face in his hands. Loki's silver ring sits lifelessly on the small table to his right. "What have I done?" he whispers. A genuine and benevolent creature by nature, he deems it unconscionable to cause anyone pain like the kind he just witnessed pouring from Loki. "Father, what have I done?" He is drowning in guilt surpassing anything he has experienced in the past.

Very seldom does Thor regret. He acts. He thinks with his heart and throws caution to the wind. He does not reflect. He does not predict. He does not think things through to fruition. He just _does_.

He is too passionate to plan ahead beyond moment to moment events. This situation is so vastly beyond him. He cannot fathom how long this has festered in Loki's heart. He fears he will never be able to rectify this. He should have been more aware, more mindful, more conscious of his feelings. God or not, Loki's heart was as alive and fragile as anyone's. Now, Thor is not sure what his heart is like. He imagines it is broken. He imagines it is more stone and ice than anything else.

His eyes are riddled with red. As fiercely as he tries to curtail his tears, he cannot shake her anguished face or the heart wrenching lilt in her voice from his memory. Her intensity frightened him, shook him to his core. And he is afraid even less than he regrets. Thor prays and pleads for her forgiveness.

He realizes now, at least in part, that he is responsible for Loki's wicked ways. The betrayal did not start when Odin revealed Loki's true parentage. It began with the two of them. Thor curses himself for being so blind. Their relations were serious enough to extend late into the night. Their interactions were passionate enough to need secrecy. He was so focused on _his_ power, _his_ coronation, _his_ ascension to the throne, _his_ war mongering… that he forgot to see Loki as a lover and not as a common subject.

It is starting to make sense. With every revelation, he experiences comes more pain. He should have known.

While it is wonderful to see Jane again, he can hardly bring himself to maintain eye contact with her without being reminded that she "that woman". Dwelling with her should fill him with joy. He loves Jane. He loves her so dearly, he was willing to put his desires on hold to assure her safety, which is saying a lot of a prince so formerly arrogant. Thor never did anything like that for Loki.

He pushes his hands back through his hair. Thor, beset with a gripping headache, sits back in his chair and gazes in despair at Loki's ring. He should have never gone searching. Nothing prepared him for what he would find.

He must try to reconcile this. He must_ try_.

After many deep breaths to steady his quaking heart, he rises and paces out of the door into the hall. He should have stayed away. He should have paid more heed to Fury's advice. Because when he comes finally comes across Lola, her hand safely locked in Rogers' grasp, his guilt gives way to anger. And it is all he can do not to rip the man to shreds.


	9. Episode 9 Like a King

They pass the mess hall and the good-natured chatter ebbs. The rest of SHIELD is having pizza and beer. Lola had requested that he escort her back to her quarters in the bunking sector. He is eager to oblige. Rogers makes great efforts to contain his elation when Lola reaches over just enough to thread their fingers together. Her touch ignites his blood. A flush climbs into his face, tinting the tips of his ears. The muscles kick in his Spartan's jaw against an unwillingness to grin. He does not want to seem overly happy, but he knows the same grin is radiating from his eyes like a rainbow from Skittles. He grasps her hand in kind, his hold firm and certain. His strength does not fail him, but his words do.

Rogers' mind is still reeling from his uncharacteristic explosion outside the base. He has never been so forward, so domineering to anyone before. With a fleeting glance from the corner of his eyes, he can see that Lola stares straight ahead, seemingly undaunted, inclining her chin in that prideful way he is accustomed to. It is the tension in her neck that gives her away. He can tell she is still shaken and fighting to bolster the dam harboring more unacknowledged tears.

The fluorescent lights accentuate the white of her skin. He can see similarities to Loki, the man, in the sharpness of her nose, high cheekbones, and the sinister flash of her green eyes. Rogers' memory strays to the first time they met on the plaza of the prestigious estate in Germany. That night, she carried herself in much the same manner.

Underneath her mask, he can also see goodness. He knows it is there, but it is buried under a tarp of tainted truths and pretty lies.

He dreams of the day when he can express his thoughts to her the way she does. Rogers heard it all. He stood at the base of the stairwell while everyone else moved ahead, eager to put a dent in the stock of Smirnoff and Heineken. Loki, in full, is a mystery to him. But Loki, in general, is a tale Rogers is very familiar with. Lola reminds him of so many melodies, so many stories, so many works of art. She is the fallen angel, the unfortunate soul, the lost one – misunderstood, broken, and unsung. She is beautiful like the way the ocean is beautiful under the moon: still and sparkling and treacherous and dark.

He does not know precisely when the suspicion struck him. It was more an idea that gradually evolved during their time together than a distinct event. He noted her affinity for green, her eloquence, and her familiarity with the Initiative. The attack on Manhattan was over a year ago. Rogers measures his life differently these days. He started living the night he watched her come down that staircase, resplendent in the emerald gown.

Rogers never thought he could care for a man this way. And perhaps he would have never realized it, had he not assumed the form of a woman first. This gives him a different perspective. He is able to adjust his mindset more readily than before, to see people as people, separate of sexual identity… sort of. Granted, this does butt heads with his faith. Seventy some years ago, he would have believed the same concept would have sent him straight to Hell. He has not entirely come to terms with it, but he knows what he feels and will attempt to parcel it out later. After all, the cultural outlook on this matter has evolved, as evidenced by the time Tony polished off his seventh glass of champagne and decided to show Rogers their "Tumbler Thread". Rogers assumed that was some sort of string for an acrobat's clothing until Tony sat him down at a computer desk. This thread, entitled "Stony", was somehow inside the glowing rectangle and presented numerous, often risqué, depictions of Stark and himself… fonduing. There was much talk of a "ship" that he never saw. Rogers was so mortified that all he could do was sit rigid as Tony scrolled through the images. He cannot remember a time he was more embarrassed.

Never again.

Rogers has spent a great many years in search of the right partner to dance with to the tune of life. Even surrounded by a plethora of women, there is only one being he would choose to lead onto the floor.

Rogers stopped comparing Lola to Peggy the night he heard Lola crying in the bathroom, that night she let him hold her, that night she trusted him enough to turn the light off and fell asleep in his arms. She is spirited, sultry, and independent, yes. But moreover, she is volatile, dangerous, and admittedly a little crooked. She comes with just as much baggage as he does.

Life with Lola is not simple. It is not easy. Luckily, Captain America was specially designed with challenges in mind.

* * *

Natasha sits off to the side, hunkered down away from the noise and the center of attention. She can smell the chemicals lingering in the air after the staff last mopped the floor. It reminds her of a hospital. She cringes, nauseated. Perched atop a table in the mess hall, she tips her head back, unintentionally emphasizing her fleshy assets, as she swallows the remainder of her vodka soda. By the time she is finished, Barton stands before her. She sits up slightly.

Barton grins. He shakes his head. "Damn Tasha. That fight with Loki… That was really something."

She sets the empty glass aside and hooks her hair behind her ear. "She was holding back," she replies flatly.

"What are you talkin' about?" he says, taking a seat beside her on the bench below.

Natasha turns her head and locks eyes with him. Bluntly, "They're gods, Clint. If she wanted, she could have served my ass back to me on a silver platter."

Barton does not look convinced. He angles towards her, propping an elbow on the tabletop. He looks casual and cool, but on point all the same. "You schooled her in hand-to-hand. I honestly wish I could have gotten it on tape."

Nastaha shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "It was just for show."

"Is that what's got you in such a rotten mood?" he mutters. He takes a swig of his Blue Moon.

Natasha is quiet for some time, considering. She does not want to ask him this, partially because it makes her look weak and partially because she is afraid of the answer. She chances it. "… Do you think I'm like Loki?"

Barton chokes on his beer. He wipes stray, dark drops from his chin. "_What_?" he coughs, laughing. She does not repeat herself. "Come on Tash, that's ridiculous! Loki is a mass-murdering sociopathic crackpot. You helped save the civilized world from him and his army of overgrown goblins. Hell no." She purses her lips, fixing her steely glare straight ahead. She does not appreciate him making a joke out of this. Barton's expression softens as he tries to catch her eyes. "Are you still on about that ledger thing? Forget it. That's the past. You're not the girl anymore babe. You're not."

She shifts her weight and crosses her legs at the knee. "No. Not anymore. But I've killed a lot of people too, more than I care to admit. I was pretty bad off before you showed up." She reaches over and closes her hand around the neck of his beer. She takes it from him and swigs, turning her head just in time to see Steve and Lola walk past the east entrance. She stares at the empty space. Misguided. Mismatched. Misunderstood, but not _missed_. She has seen it before. "Sometimes I wonder where I would be, who I would serve. I think… Lola is in that same place." Natasha will not say it outright, but she believes Steve is to Lola what Clint was to her – an awakening, a savior of sorts. She does not necessarily trust her. She does not like her either, necessarily. But, Natasha thinks, she can _understand_ her now. And that changes things.

* * *

A dozen paces away, Banner is staring at the same door. "This is getting weird."

Stark is sucking pizza grease off his thumb. "We're a controversial gang of ex assassins, science geniuses, a star spangled super-senior citizen, a notsojolly green giant, and an alien god. When is it not weird, Bruce?"

Banner sighs and waves his remark away, getting them back on task with, "You know Steve likes her. He likes her a lot. Like… weirdly a lot."

"Yeah. So? Are you jealous or something? Green with envy?" He elbows him, chuckling.

Banner shoots him a scalding glare. "Stark, shut up. Of course not. It's just… He knows. And we know. And she knows we know. And we know she knows we know. Why isn't she changing back into Loki?"

"Am I supposed to be honest when I answer this?" Before Banner can retort, "Because-"

"She's in love with Steve and she doesn't believe he can love her any other way. Isn't it obvious?" Jane says, having caught them unawares. She smiles absently, her starry eyes dusted with the fairy dust of romance or something frightening like that.

Stark and Banner stare at her and then glance at one another from the corners of their eyes. "Have you tried the Hawaiian? It's fantastic. I'm going for seconds before the janitor makes off with the box."

"I'll accompany you," Banner says, quickly making his exit. Jane clasps her hands and sighs wistfully, thoughts of Thor on her mind. Darcy pats Jane's shoulder, shaking her head hopelessly at Dr. Selvig who has no cure for what ails her.

* * *

Rogers hears Thor before he sees him, the steady thuds of his boots hard on the hollow floor. He pauses, glancing back at his shoulder, which was apparently the wrong thing to do because Lola tugs fiercely on his arm when she tries to continue forward. He immediately lets go of her hand when Thor rounds the corner, which was apparently the second wrong thing, because it is the guilty thing to do. Rogers flushes in spite of himself. Thor stops in his tracks, his ice blue eyes darting back and forth from Lola to Steve. Rogers realizes, as much as he knows the extent of Loki's and Thor's past, Thor probably knows nothing about the two of them. He starts wondering if that should make him jealous, because it does.

Thor's eyes gradually narrow and he furrows his brow. "What is this? You dare put your hands on my brother?"

"I-" Steve starts.

Lola practically growls in annoyance as she pivots towards him. "I am _not_ your brother, Thor," she snaps.

"Sister," Thor corrects, the strange word perplexing him as it rolls of his tongue.

Exasperated, "**Thor**, we are _not _related!"

Thor ignores her. "Have I missed something? How can you stand there, tearing me apart in the worst way, and meanwhile-" His expression becomes stone. He stammers for a moment. "I searched for you! I spent weeks scouring the galaxy, journeying to worlds I had never heard of to find you!"

Steve watches as the anger in Lola's face gives way to surprise. "I did not-"

"No! You did not! Because you did not give me time enough to explain, to get a single word in! Because your happiness always takes precedence." He advances. "Relation or not, you are still family to me and as I would for any beloved being, I was worried! Despite the evils you exacted on my father, on me, on Asgard and Midgard!" Steve sees fresh tears spring into Lola's eyes. That is the first time Rogers has heard Thor refer to Odin as _his_ father. Yet, even as she tears up, she glares, skewing her jaw at an irate angle.

Rogers swallows thickly, gritting his teeth behind the line of his lips, listlessly opening and closing his hands. He desperately wants to do _something_. Thor is still advancing. He is about to shoulder Steve out of the way when Steve steps in front of him and braces his hand firmly against the rampart that is Thor's chest. He meets his eyes and Thor stares back at him, as though he is seeing him for the first time. He wants Thor to know he means him no harm. He is merely trying to mediate the fight, knowing that neither Asgardian is in a place to argue rationally at the moment. But that was the third wrong thing to do.

The peaceful gesture is misinterpreted.

Thor seizes his shirt, lifts his feet from the floor, turns, and hurls him against the wall. The air explodes from Steve's lungs in a cough. "Oh yes, just throw your weight around, you boorish lummox. As Odin is my witness, you excel at little else!" Lola exclaims. With the help of the rare pull of pride, Steve finds his feet. Thor is acting strange. This behavior is not like him.

Darkly, "This does not concern you, Captain. Do not interfere," the God of Thunder states, his eyes fixed on Lola.

Lola rolls her eyes. She turns on her heel and starts to stalk away until Thor's hand juts out and clamps down around her upper arm. He yanks her back. She faces him with a fierce scowl.

"I always knew," Thor begins lowly. "I always knew what you were. Father shared it with me as a child, because I did not understand how I could possibly be related to someone so fragile. I wouldn't be surprised if the entire city knew before _you_ were enlightened with the truth."

Lola's eyes are growing. "What-" she chokes.

"Loki, _shame_ of Laufey – ever the popular gag for all manner of gossip."

She is clearly horrified. "S- Stop it. You are lying," she desperately wants to believe.

He starts to smile. "You were, and will always be, a disgrace to Asgard. And you will die a homeless, wandering wretch, remembered as the coward who killed his own father." He is grinning down into her face. "Can you hear it? The applause of millions, congratulating me, when I bring your body back to burn!"

"Thor!" Steve hollers. The godly marvel faces him and flings Lola aside when he realizes the Captain is racing towards him. He barrels into Thor with all his might, shouldering him into the wall with a cavernous, earth shaking boom. Thor heaves him off with a powerful thrust of his arms. Steve slides backwards, but manages to stay on his feet. He springs forward and lands a brutal punch into his jaw. Thor stands, unfazed.

"… Right," Steve says apprehensively as his eyes track over his face. Thor's arm suddenly swings out and backhands him with tremendous force, hurling him into the same wall. Steve crumbles to the ground, his vision swimming. He is trying to shake it off. Thor is advancing on Lola again. She is crawling backwards, watching him in horror. He does not understand why she does not attack. Evidently, they are all emotionally compromised. Rogers feels rage for Thor comparable to that which he felt for the hound.

Steve forces himself to his feet and dashes towards Thor again. Thor turns just in time to catch his throat in a vice grip. Rogers thrashes as Thor lifts him off the ground, his fingertips digging into his wrist, trying to pry it loose. Both of them turn their attention to Thor's arm when an encasing of ice begins to form over the elbow. Lola stands out of reach with her hand outstretched, breathing laboriously. Steve kicks up with his knee and slams it into the frozen sheath over Thor's elbow. Thor sneers in pain and drops Rogers who in turn slams the flat of his foot into the side of Thor's knee. He stumbles. Rogers rolls away. He wants to keep Thor's attention on him. What would Stark say in this situation? Erm… uh…

"Come on Point Break, let's see it!" Steve shouts. They exchange blows for a brief moment. Lola tries to intervene once, but Thor strikes her aside before Rogers can block the blow. When Steve is distracted, Thor seizes Rogers by the throat again, hoists him up, and slams him down, cratering the floor. When the world stops rumbling, Thor kneels over him, pushing down on his neck with crushing force. Rogers gasps and chokes for air, striking and ripping at Thor's arm. A ring of black is creeping in around his eyes. His body feels cold. Despite his struggles, he falls unconscious.

* * *

"Leave him!" Lola screams, just as one of her heels comes flying at Thor's head. It bounces off with a thunk and she feels a small sense of triumph. She is so emotionally exhausted. Using her powers is tremendously difficult. She is too afraid, and too vain, to let the Frost Giant surface. Thor is the singular being she never wants to see her that way, he who mocked her for it a moment ago. His awful words still burn.

Thor stands. He is walking towards her. Lola sets her jaw and frowns. She fists her hands defiantly. She is stunned when Thor's expression becomes disarming, soft, even apologetic… like a giant guilty grizzly bear. She gazes up at him, breathless, laboring to keep her guard up. Thor leans down, his luminous blue eyes tracking across her face. She feels him wrap his arm around her and can't bring herself to struggle when he reels her in. Her hands settle against his chest. His lips hover over hers and it is impossible to think about Rogers. She trembles. Her godly strength is far away.

"How do I look?" he asks gently, his brow furrowing with feelings.

Lola smiles sadly. "… Like a Ki-" Suddenly, Thor plunges a dagger just below where her ribs converge. She stares up in shock, her eyes wide with confusion, as though she is experiencing pain for the first time. Her lip quivers. Appalled by his betrayal, tears drip down the corners of her eyes. She cannot look away from his face. All emotion is gone from his eyes, replaced by a dark, heartless smirk. Lola weakly shakes her head. She breaks their silence with a strangled sob and clutches his wrist. She gasps.

"NO!" she hears from somewhere else, the roar a muffled echo at the far edge of her consciousness. A heady sensation is worming its way through her willpower. Her body tingles. Numbness ascends her legs.

"Don't fret," Thor hisses. "You will not die. Not yet."

* * *

Rogers, fighting for the strength to get up from the floor, is horrorstricken as Lola's body goes limp in Thor's arms, the hilt of a knife protruding from her middle. "You-!" he manages through his clogged throat. He is still emerging from his cataleptic episode, but the haze has lifted enough for him to interpret this. Suddenly, he is reaching for Bucky again. He is a breath away. He is so close. He is _so_ close, but not close enough. Bucky slips and plummets down over the great precipice of the snowy mountain, falling to his death, leaving Steve impregnated with an enormous emptiness that expands within him like a living thing. He is barely aware of the thud of new, heavy footsteps down the corridor. A figure rounds the far corner, standing tall and imposing, his chest heaving with rage and worry.**_ Thor?_** Rogers blinks hard. He looks between the identical figures and a revelation occurs to him.

Thor is not acting like himself… because this is not Thor! It is a bounty hunter!

A growl rips from the real Thor's throat and he thrusts his arm out, calling his hammer. Mjolnir bursts through several walls and sails into his hand. The false Thor begins to glow, a spiraling ring of light swallowing him and Lola both from the floor up. With a bellowing war cry, the real Thor cranks his arm back to throw. The false Thor grins, extends a bloody hand, and bows to him. By the time the real Thor releases the weapon, they have vanished. Rogers ducks to avoid Mjolnir as it whirls through the empty air.

* * *

"They've taken her!" Rogers announces, shoving through the cafeteria door and stumbling inside. His words are met with complete silence, save for the thud of Thor's boots and he emerges in much the same fashion. Most of the staff and other personnel have left to attend to other matters, including Jane Foster and Director Fury. Aside from the team, there are only a few stranglers left.

"Come! We must hurry to apprehend the fiend!" Thor proclaims.

Rogers knows they know what he means. He knows they understand that Lola is doomed in the hands of the Chitauri. Yet, no one jumps up. Clint coughs, but no one speaks. Not even Stark had a pithy remark up his sleeve. Rogers looks from face to face, searching for some sign of sympathy. Banner, Barton, Stark, and Romanoff all avert their eyes, their expressions callous. Rogers grits his teeth and swallows. They have no love for her, for Loki. Expecting them to help him, leader or not, is not realistic. This is not their duty. Besides, Fury will need them _here_ should something happen. The threat of invasion looms on the horizon. He cannot afford to let them go. Rogers gathers himself. He inclines his chin and announces stridently, "Thor and I will go. Tell Fury we will be back as soon as possible."

"We'll hold down the fort until you get back, Cap," Banner pledges with some difficulty. The others are gradually turning their attention towards him as well, with the exception of Natasha, who is scowling at the tabletop. Rogers nods to each of his teammates in turn.

"You _are _coming back," Stark states, tucking a pizza box under his arm. "Having our most patriotic member dying rescuing an alien terrorist is really bad press."

* * *

Rogers suits up in a hurry. "Please God. Don't let her die," he whispers, situating his red gloves. He reaches for his shield. He stares down at it. "So do not fear," he recites, "for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." Rogers swallows hard.

He follows Thor from the base out into the dark dessert by the light of the moon and the stars, which are brighter than normal out in the wilds. Roughly a mile from the facility, they come across an expansive, circular imprint in the dirt, swirling with all manner of shapes and symbols. Rogers hears a low rumble and a honking horn. They turn towards two glaring yellow headlights.

"Hold it right there!" they hear a voice over the hum of the engine. The car shuts off. Rogers turns squints to see Romanoff running towards them, one of SHIELD's jeeps parked behind her. Catching her breath, "I'm coming too!" Rogers is stunned. His mouth works, trying to say something, something like it is too dangerous, or he appreciates her gesture, or... "I'm going," she states again, in a tone with which there is no arguing. She adjusts her ammunitions belt, fastening it to her uniform. "You're not thinking straight," she tells Rogers. She turns her head towards Thor. "And you… You just don't think at all."

Thor frowns at the determined red head, the both of them locked in an intense stare down. He eventually accepts the statement with a shrug and a nod. "So be it." Thor smiles at her, shouldering his hammer.

"Alright gang," Rogers grins. "Let's be back in time for breakfast."

They stand in the circular spiral of symbols. "I cannot promise you will enjoy this," Thor says. His warning makes Rogers square his shoulders and plant his feet. He fills his chest and fists his hands. Thor looks up as though he can see his world from here. "Heimdall!" the Asgardian booms. "Take us home."

* * *

www. youtube. com SLASH watch?v=r0EVEXX9kpk&hd=1


	10. Episode 10 Living for Two Part 1

The Captain waits with bated breath, chancing a glance at Romanoff who is looking up like Thor, but with a decidedly less exuberant expression on her face, as though she is waiting for the morning bus. Rogers has no idea what to expect and with each passing moment he grows more and more anxious. Suddenly, he is engulfed in light and sucked upwards, pitched headlong into the air at an alarming rate, soaring, sailing, falling _up_. The air roars and whips around him with crushing force and it is difficult to breathe. Through the tempestuous ribbons of blinding color, he glimpses twinkling lights against a pitch-black tarp. Rogers mind reels.

_Stars._

Those are stars! He occasionally sees larger, blurred orbs. Planets? Rogers suddenly realizes they are in some sort of supersonic vacuum, traveling at speeds impossible for humans to ever achieve. He can hardly fathom the implications of this. _He_ is traveling through space, a feat considered to be impossible in his time. They are literally shooting across the galaxy like a ball from a cannon, torpedoing through **Space**.

Captain America is absolutely, utterly, completely, and totally… terrified.

He is not prepared for the abrupt collision of his feet with solid ground and stumbles forward. He doubles over, clutching his writhing gut and holding his hand tightly over his mouth, willing himself not to vomit. He heaves several times, but manages to contain the contents of his stomach. Thor, meanwhile, simply steps across the floor as though he is walking out of an elevator. And Natasha…

Captain America looks up when he hears a shrill, wild, triumphant shriek. Natasha is jumping, clapping, and practically running in circles, screaming at the top of her lungs. She starts yelling in Russian, probably using all manner of colorful vocabulary. She punches the air in a flurry of fists and raises her hands high above her, only to bring her elbows in. The woman is _beaming_, smiling more than she has smiled in the year and a half Steve has known her. Rogers has never seen her so excited. It is as though she is an entirely different person. She combs her hands back through her hair, her eyes wide with disbelief and exhilaration.

"Mary mother of- Holy- Oh WOW! Let's do it again! Round two! Let's go again!" she cheers, turning her attention to Thor. "Can we-" She stops. Her expression mellows out, transitioning into wonder, her eyes growing slightly, her breathing on pause. She straightens. Rogers turns his attention in the same direction.

They are in a golden, domed structure. A man, resplendent in gold armor, stands on the summit of a centralized dais, the grand sword under his hands staked into the floor. His dark skin accentuates the radiant gold of his eyes. He is watching them patiently. If Captain America is not mistaken, there is a hint of amusement on his lips. The affect of his gaze is nearly indescribable, as though he can see right through their skin into the confines of his soul. Suddenly, Rogers has no doubts about his mission. He has no worries, no regrets, and no sadness. He can feel only peace and reassurance. If Rogers did not know better, he would have easily believed he was staring into the face of God himself. The Captain slowly finds his feet. The golden man's lips spread into a broader smile. Rogers is stunned when he kneels to Thor, who stands just below him, and plants his fist over his heart.

Thor bows his head accordingly. "Heimdall. We have little time. Can you tell us where this hunter has taken Loki?"

Heimdall rises. His voice is deeper, rich with a pronounced accent. "Normally, Loki is shielded from my gaze, and he has been so for quite some time, lest Odin's Guard would have found him long ago. But yes. I can see him now."

This news seems to alarm Thor. "Has something happened? Is he-"

"Loki is alive, but there is something interfering with his powers, preventing him from using enchantments. He is in great pain."

"The knife," Captain America whispers to himself. He swallows down the bile that climbs up his throat, remembering the scene and the grotesque _shink _of the stab.

"Where have they gone?" Thor persists.

"To Ceras."

Captain America looks up and frowns. "What?"

"But it is the_ Chitauri _who are after Loki!" Thor says.

"The huntress was not contracted by the Chitauri. But that is not to say she is not in league with them."

"She?" Widow asks.

"Vyctraes, Empress of the Cerael."

The Captain shakes his head. "But that was Thor. How-"

"The Cerael are masters of illusion. The outermost glasslike layer of their skin, while durable, can also act like a mirror. That is how they are able to hide their true form and appear human."

"I don't understand," the Captain admits.

"Vyctraes appeared as Thor because Lola wanted to see him. Because her memories of him were so apparent and easy to target."

"And she knew she could get to her that way. Vicious bitch," Widow mutters.

Thor fists his hands angrily. "What does she stand to gain by taking Loki?"

"… Everything," Rogers realizes. He searches disparagingly in the shinning marble floor for something he does not want to find. Natasha was right. He was not thinking undertaking this task so hastily.

"She knew we would go after Lola," Widow finishes somberly, assuming her professional persona.

"She wanted to lure us away from Earth," Rogers mumbles.

Black Widow shrugs, the ease of her analytical manner tantamount to breathing. "I wouldn't say _us_ so much as Thor. He and Hulk are our most dangerous weapons. Vyctraes probably knew no average bounty hunter could infiltrate the base. She made it personal so Lola would be easy to capture and Thor would have to come to her rescue."

"He doesn't," The Captain declares. They all look at him. He fills his chest, "Thor, you and Natasha go back to Earth. Fury can't spare you. They all need you now. I will find Lola alone."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Natasha declares.

In earnest, "That is an order from your captain, Widow. I will take this mission."

Thor scoffs. "You stand on my world now, Captain. _I_ need not take orders from mortal men in tight blue costumes." He starts to grin.

Natasha marches up to Rogers. Shrewdly, "You do not get to have all the fun and take all the glory too. I said I was going, and I'm going. We'll be back in time for the fireworks, Cap. It'll be fine." Rogers is almost certain she wants to go only for the chance to "star sail" again, but he is smart enough than to point that out. "The more of us there are, the greater the chance for timely success." She folds her arms obstinately.

"And the greater the loss will be for failure," Captain America reminds her.

"Failure is not an option." She turns and addresses Heimdall. "So how do we get Lola back?"

"You all must face your fears… and break the illusion," he tells her.

* * *

Lola, steadily regaining consciousness, shifts. Her eyes snap open when a shooting pain rips through her muscles. She whimpers when she sits up enough to see the knife protruding from her ribs. She breaks into a cold sweat. Sent into shock, her shaky hand goes to wrench it free.

"I would not do that if I were you," says a disembodied hiss that sounds chillingly familiar. It is a male voice. Lola looks around breathlessly. "If you remove the blade, you will die."

With great effort, "Who is here? Where am I?"

"Precisely where Thor left you."

It all comes racing back to her. Lola bites back a sob of emotional and physical agony. "What have you done to me?" she chokes and shivers. She feels strangely empty, bereft of her magic which floats tauntingly just beyond her reach.

"Only what you had coming. I did warn you, you know." Lola grits her teeth, the hairs of her neck suddenly on end, her nerves firing frantically. She is laying on a hard, dark floor, giving off a faint blue glow directly beneath her. There is a solitary bluish light above her in the center of an otherwise dark chamber. It is almost impossible to tell where the walls are. A figure is emerging from the shadows – feet poking out of the bottom of a long cloak. He is hooded, but she can see his blood stained teeth glistening as he grins. Lola shudders, unable to find the strength to remain propped up. She lays back.

_The Other._

"Don't look so discouraged. We have an entire catalog of delights in store for you." Lola turns her face away, a chill settling into her bones. She shivers again. "Cold?" he asks, proceeding in a slow circle, like the vulturous bloodsick scavenger he is. "I didn't know Frost Giants could get cold," he sneers, smiling rapaciously. Her tense expression quivers. Her muscles keep seizing up against the cold and the fear, only worsening the pain. She has little control of her body, the reactions impossible to quell. How could Thor have done this? Could he really have handed her over to the Chitauri? To The Other?

"What did - he ask in return?" she manages.

"Who?"

"Th – Thor. What did…" She seals her lips tight, coping with another excruciating shudder. "-you give him in return?"

"Oh that." He chuckles unkindly. "Absolutely nothing. We tried to compensate him for his time… But he's a very generous prince."

Lola fights new tears. She closes her eyes, ill from it all. Her hair is wet with perspiration, strands of it clinging to her face. Her skin is clammy and sickly white. Her makeup has blackened circles around her eyes. She imagines she looks absolutely hideous. She is glad Thor cannot see her now. She has no desire to see Thor anyhow.

Her voice breaks and dips, cut short from the tremendous effort it takes to speak without screaming. "There was… a man." She inhales, short and sharp. Every breath is agony. "I was with - someone when Thor - came for me." She does her best to swallow. "Is he still alive?"

The Other is quiet for an uncomfortable moment while Lola lays dreading his response. She asks herself why she could not have just ignored Thor, why she could not have kept walking with Rogers, why she always has to answer Thor's challenges.

"Yes," The Other hisses. Lola smiles, as much as her suffering will permit. She closes her eyes, a teardrop rolling over the bridge of her nose, surrendering to her predicament.

_Then stay that way, you bungling idiot. Stay that way for a long, long time. After all. You're living for two now._

* * *

"Well that was cryptic," Natasha mutters to Rogers, standing beside him. Thor stands resolutely on her right. She lowers her voice a bit and leans towards Rogers, clearly irritated. "What are we supposed to do with that information? Face your fear and break the illusion, you must. Gee, thanks Yoda." Thor shoots her a decidedly offended glare. She shifts on her feet, rethinking her antics. "I've been hanging around Tony too much."

"Remember," Heimdall declares behind them, elevated on the dais. "Ceras is not safe. You have limited time to recover Loki and return to the bridge imprint before the planet's air becomes toxic to your body."

"Perfect," Widow says.

"Be ready," the Captain warns, tightening his hold on his shield. "We have no idea what will be waiting on the other end." Thor nods.

"Take heart. And good luck." Heimdall opens the Bifrost, the needle sent into a spin as it rotates and points north. Flashes of lightning branch across the dome and dance in mid air, cracking loudly. Suddenly, they are sucked out again, into the same stream of light, careening through the stars.

* * *

"Director Fury! Director Fury!" Jane shouts, scurrying around the corner into Fury's office, spilling several papers from the foreboding pile in her arms. Fury stands. "We have our first reported attack!"

"Where?" he demands.

Jane scrambles to pick up the top three pieces of paper from the floor and quickly thrusts them into his hands. "Washington DC."

* * *

"Alright team. We're semi shorthanded today, but if we all pull our own weight and give a little extra oomph, I think we'll be fine," Hawkeye says in the belly of the aircraft carrier, his fists on his hips. He starts nodding to himself. To Iron Man, looking for reassurance, "We _will_… be fine… right?"

Iron Man glances at Banner who is removing his reading glasses. "Banner. Activate Rage Monster." Banner meets his eyes, his own swimming with uncertainty. He nods. "Show time." Iron Man flips up his mask. "Gentlemen, let's get our shuffle on."

* * *

Captain America has to retain his stomach again when they stumble onto Ceras. They needn't have worried about an assault. The scene is vast and deserted. He can see his breath in the air. He is assaulted by an intense set of flashbacks – the frigid cold, the shortness of breath, the icy water…

"Captain," he hears. "Captain!" He turns and sees Natasha, who has him by the elbow, watching him with a mix of confusion and concern. He wonders how long he was deaf to her voice. He nods to her, conveying without words that he is alright. Rogers looks out and scans the terrain. The planet is dark, comprised of what appears to be thick crystal, radiating a faint blue light. He glances up, noticing snaking tendrils of amber mist in the starry sky. He follows them over his shoulder and is stunned when he sees a much thicker yellowy cloud in the distance, looming ominously, spanning the breadth of the entire horizon, advancing like a sandstorm. It groans like a living thing.

"That can't be good."

"Over here!" Thor bellows. Captain America and Black Widow hasten forward. They pick their way up a crystal slope to join Thor at the top of the jagged hill. Thor motions outward with his hammer, indicating an extensive network of dark domed buildings connected by a series of tunnels in the midst an enormous crater. They grow taller and broader as one proceeds inward, the central peak being the largest.

Natasha sighs. "It's an entire city. Where do we even begin?"

"In the highest room of the tallest tower," the Captain responds without thinking. In the awkward silence that follows, he notices that his teammates are giving him a peculiar look. "What?" he asks. "That's… that's usually where the princess is…" His voice trains off. He clears his throat and moves forward, starting the precarious descent down the interior wall of the crater. "Well?" he shouts up after a moment of carefully scaling the incline. "Are you coming or what?" Thor and Widow glance at one another.

A few dozen feet before Captain America reaches the bottom, Thor lands with a _whack _on the ground level and Natasha comes whooshing past Rogers, using a smoother part of the slope like her own personal slide. She whoops gleefully all the way down.

The group surveys the spectacle, which looks abandoned from the outside. Widow draws her gun when a wall vanishes, leaving an open view of the hallway yawning beyond. She takes a small flashlight from her belt and holds it under the firearm. She approaches carefully and shines the light around the chamber.

"It looks empty enough," she says.

"Do not forget what Heimdall said. These beings are masters of illusion. We have no idea what awaits us within."

Captain America commits the notion to memory and approaches the threshold, taking point. "Be on your guard," Rogers whispers to himself, eyeing the doorway. "Stand firm in the faith; be men of courage. Be strong." _1 Corinthians 16:13_. Just before Captain America ventures inside, Thor stops him by the shoulder.

"You have risked your life not once, but twice thrice thus far. Do you truly care so much for my brother?" he asks deliberately, frowning in earnest.

Widow grimaces. "I don't really think Steve's used to the whole-"

"Yes," states Rogers, never taking his eyes from Thor's face. Natasha stares at him, her mouth slightly agape, almost convinced he said that without blushing. She blinks rapidly.

"Very well." Thor nods. He claps the Captain's shoulder and gestures at him with his hammer. "We shall have words later." From his tone, Rogers reasons this is a mandatory statement. He nods back, but is not entirely comfortable with the idea. There is no telling what _having words_ entails with an Asgardian. They cross the threshold. The previously dark floor glows faintly beneath their feet and then fades again when the pressure is removed. The doorway disappears behind them.

They journey through the entry room and down the tunnel, keeping to the main passage and avoiding other rooms that branch off on either side. Widow, holding her flashlight up, whirls towards movement she catches at the edge of her vision. It is only her reflection in the strange glasslike wall, not quite opaque and not quite transparent. She does not like missions of this nature. She would much rather be in the heat of a battle than sleuthing through a spooky place like this. The rooms are completely empty, devoid not only of life but of furniture and appliances as well. So expecting is she that they will eventually discover _something_ that she starts seeing tables and chairs from the corners of her eyes – the shadow of a bed in an adjoining room – a reclining bench against the wall. She blinks hard and shakes her head. She edges a bit closer to Captain America who appears to be just as edgy.

Thor brings up the rear of the group, checking over his shoulder from time to time. Their footsteps echo through the otherwise empty passages until there are layers and layers of footsteps, both distant and close, as though the city is still inhabited by hundreds of others who walk the same halls. Thor stops and spins, sure he felt breath on the back of his neck. He stares hard down the empty hallway, growing progressively darker as the light in the floor fades. He frowns and resumes the search with the others.

Black Widow gasps shortly when she thinks she sees a figure pass in front of them, entering another room. The breathy sound also echoes, and somewhere embedded in the layers, Natasha swears she hears something else mutter her name.

"Don't get jumpy now, Romanoff," she mutters to herself.

"No," Thor responds. He pauses to let the echo of their voices dissipate. "There _is_ something abiding here with us."

Captain America, unaware that his companions have paused, continues on. Under his suit, in spite of the bitter cold, he is sweating bullets. He has never been here before, but this place, the darkness of it, the way the walls shimmer and swim, glow, is very familiar. He is trying not to remember. He does not want to think about it. Yet, the deeper they go, the worse it gets. A trapped feeling worms its way into his throat and hangs like doom above his head. This place… reminds him of the Hydra ship – the coffin in his watery grave.

A wall, not unlike the one that opened at the entrance, suddenly forms behind him. "Captain?" he hears Widow shout, though her voice is distorted. He rushes up and puts his hand on the wall, looking for some way to deactivate it. The wall immediately becomes transparent, but it does not open. He sees Widow and Thor on the other side. Natasha's shoulders droop in relief.

"Stand back," Thor announces. Widow moves aside. Captain America steps aside too, but he keeps his hand firmly on the wall, not wanting to lose sight of Thor and Natasha. Thor cranks his arm back and brings his hammer down on the barricade. The resulting clang rings violently through the passage, vibrating the entire city. But the wall is completely unscathed. Suddenly, another wall forms behind Captain America, caging him in a box roughly the size of his old room. Rogers's heart rate kicks up.

Rogers starts looking around him, determined to find another way out when he notices a strange ripple in the floor. He squints against the darkness and looks closer. His pulse flatlines.

Water.

The cell is filling with water! "Guys." The Captain is momentarily rooted in place, petrified by the panic that surges through his chest. "Guys!" He turns back to the wall and begins to slam his fists against the glasslike surface.

"Captain!" He hears Widow's muffled shout. "What's wrong!"

Rogers steps back from the wall. The world immediately gets darker as the transparency clouds over. He swings his shield at the wall, trying to chip away at the material. The Duranium doesn't even scratch it. Meanwhile, the water is still rising. The barrier becomes transparent again. Natasha has her hands pressed against the glass. Her eyes grow.

_Dear God_, she utters in Russian. "Thor!" Thor begins to pound on the divider with all his might, driving his hammer hard against the crystal, each blow resounding throughout the passage and beyond. The water level reaches Rogers' thighs. The chill of it seeps into his bones. He kicks and punches against the wall. Widow steps back, leaving Captain America in the dark. She draws her gun, and starts firing at the rampart. The bullets bounce off, sailing in all manner of directions. Luckily, none of them hit her. "Captain!" Natasha shouts in dismay. She rushes up and puts her hands against the wall again. The water is up to his chest. She can see his staccato puffs of breath in the air and the horror in his face. "Do something!" she screams at Thor.

"I cannot!" he roars back, his eyes just as terrified as hers are. After a second, he begins to rush headlong into the wall, barreling his shoulder against it, rocking the tunnel.

"What do you mean you cannot! You're the God of Thunder! Call lightning! Do something!"

"If I call lightning, it could end him!" Thor bellows, breathing hard from the exertion. Captain America is fighting to keep his head above water, his hand against the barrier. Widow's eyes widen as he forces what he can of a tight smile. He nods to her softly.

"Cap-!" she starts. He takes his hand away from the crystal. The wall goes dark. "Steve!" she screams, undone by the sense of helplessness. She rushes forward, but Thor catches her but the waist and hauls her back, locking her in his arms. She thrashes and struggles against his grasp. "No! NO!"

Thor grits his teeth and shuts his eyes. There is nothing more they can do.

* * *

The hellish morning drags on. Hawkeye draws his bow and launches an arrow at a Ceraelian soldier. Again, it bounces off, sinking into a concrete pillar. The ensuing explosion catapults a slew of gravel into the air. People are fleeing into the streets, pouring out of the Smithsonian, screaming at the top of their lungs. Less than a mile away, Hulk springs into the air and clutches the nose of a ship, bringing it down into the Reflecting Pool. Iron Man's upgraded gatling gun propels blasts at the advancing fleet gliding across the Tidal Basin. This enemy is different than the Chitauri – organized, advancing in battalions, marching ever onward over the fallen like army ants.

"This isn't working!" Hawk shouts over the com link. "They just keep coming!"

"Issuing the final evac now," Fury says. "Sending air support and dispatching a SHIELD squad to escort the President and his family out of the city. Hold the line at Constitution for as long as possible."

"Roger that," Iron Man says, dodging an oncoming SUV. He suddenly stops and hovers in the air, staring uneasily at the figure hovering in like manner less than a block away. Stark blinks in disbelief. He begins to wonder if he suffered recent, severe trauma to the head. "Jarvis?"

"Sir."

"Are any of our suits missing?"

"No sir. All accounted for. No activity at Stark Tower."

The readouts are clear, identifying the red and gold suit to be an identical copy of his own armor and the man inside it, likewise. Matching weaponry. Equivalent intellectual capacity. Twin capabilities.

Prognosis – Increasingly Negative.

"Wow," he mumbles. "I need to lose some weight." The doppelganger elevates his arm and shoots.

* * *

Captain America breathes erratically, kicking against the frigid water to stay on the surface, his lips practically kissing the ceiling in the sliver of space that remains. What terrifies him the most is how long it will take him to drown, how slow he will die in the darkness with the enhanced capacity of his lungs. As much as he does not want to die alone, he cannot bring himself to make Natasha, or Thor for that matter, watch. He shivers fiercely.

"Wait for the Lord," he coughs and sputters. "Be strong… and take heart… and wait for the Lord." He gasps. "I'm waitin', big guy. I'm w-" The water creeps up, spilling into his mouth. Captain America closes his eyes as it engulfs him. He sinks, fully submerged, spurts of bubbles escaping his lips. /God,/ he pleads. /Not like this. Please, not like this./

And then, as if by magic, _Do not forget what Heimdall said. _

_You all must face your fears… and break the illusion._

This is no illusion to him, but he clings to the only hint and hope he has left. He lets his mind wander back to the pool at the Marriot, and the way Lola's hair ripples like black ribbons on the surface – her radiant smile. He thinks back to Stark's New Year's Eve party, when he picked Natasha up and jumped into the water. His mind travels farther back, beyond his icy moratorium, to the day he plunged into the harbor to stop the Hydra submersible hunkered down in the docks. He remembers Eagle Scout trips to the lake, his first time in the ocean, splashing in muddy puddles, racing through the gutters, the baby pool in his mother's backyard.

He is not afraid of water. He loves water.

The walls blow apart, exploding into hundreds of crystal chunks and shards. The water spills out in a tidal wave, gushing over the passage. Thor turns his body away, yanking Natasha's feet from the floor. He stands over her, holding her tightly against him, planting his feet and bracing himself as the water roars past and the pieces of crystal splash down into the flooded area.

Captain America lands hard on solid ground, coughing. Natasha wriggles her way out of Thor's arms and wades towards him as quickly as she can, pushing her sopping wet hair out of her face. Thor stands immobilized, staring at Rogers in disbelief. Widow collapses to her knee and takes the Captain's face between her hands, inspecting him thoroughly. She scowls, but her eyes are beaming. "You tricky bastard! Don't ever do that again!" She pulls him into a fierce hug. Captain America ropes an arm around her, laughing hoarsely. Thor picks his shield up from the watery floor.

"How did-?" He flips the disk repeatedly in his hands, scrutinizing it incredulously.

"I didn't use that," the Captain tells him. Thor appears even more vexed than before. Rogers shakes his head. "I was certain I was going to drown. I don't exactly know what happened."

Widow purses her lips. "I say we find Lola and get the hell out of here, double time."

"I concur," Thor grumbles.


	11. Episode 11 Living for Two Part 2

This time, Thor takes point with Widow behind him and Captain America brings up the rear. The wintry air does nothing to dry their clothes. Captain is worried about Widow, but the woman pays no heed to the debilitating cold. The deeper they go, the more difficult it becomes to keep to what they believe is the main tunnel. It begins to bend and branch off, skirting around broad rooms and other chambers and they must be very careful to remember which direction they deviated to in order to correct themselves later. It feels somewhat like the ant farm Rogers kept as a boy. They need to find the central spire at the heart of the city… quickly.

The ceilings are getting higher, _incredibly_ high. They pass what Captain America assumes is a courtyard, the circular sanctum open to the starry sky. It is walled in by a much thinner, more transparent layer of crystal, like a rigged wrinkled veil. The facets are playing tricks on him. Where previously there was an empty patio, he sees a sparkling fountain and strange vines, meticulously trimmed hedges, thin twisting flowers, spiny trees, stepping stones, tiered planters… Just as quickly, there is nothing. Rogers looks ahead and sees a magnificent chandelier mounted in a higher domed potion of the ceiling made of dangling, diamond-like shards. He blinks. It is gone. But he can still hear the faint melodic chiming of clinking crystals in the still air.

This is a ghost city, a kingdom of moonlight, haunted by residual memories of what once was… and what might have been. Imprints. Shadows. Dreams differed. It is eerie, yet somehow breathtaking. Captain America tries to ignore the sting of guilt for their plight. The Cerael would not have to leave, not be on the warpath, had it not been for them. Like humanity, they are merely trying to find their place in the universe and assure the continuation of their race. Their desire to live is just as fierce as Humanity's.

Then again, they also took Lola from him. He promptly shrugs off the remorse.

They emerge beneath the domed ceiling where the crystal chandelier hung. Three tunnels converge here. There is the tunnel they came down and two more, splitting off to the left and right. Thor's attention vacillates between one passage and the next, neither giving any obvious indication it is the right one. It is most perplexing. He cannot fathom why anyone would make a city so impossible to navigate. He misses the decidedly simple grid system of Asgard. Suddenly, the fraction of crystal floor he stands on juts upwards and he must brace his legs to find his balance and avoid tumbling to the ground, which is getting farther and farther away.

"Thor!" The Captain calls. The elevating spire slows to a stop. Thor readies himself for an assault of some kind. Nothing happens. From high above his companions, he looks back down at them and shrugs his brawny shoulders. Suddenly the platform of the spire extends horizontally in a slender bridge to the far wall, which opens up like the entrance. Thor regards it cautiously.

"Perhaps this is the path," Thor hollers.

"Thor… I don't think that's a good idea." Widow is almost certain the crystal will shatter under his lead weight, but he crosses the bridge with little trouble. Thor raises his hammer and peers into the new, darker passage. He steps off the bridge to inspect the tunnel for traps. A wall immediately forms behind him.

Widow's slack face sinks into her hand. She drags her palm down to her chin. The bridge retracts and the spire descends. It vanishes into the floor, leaving it seamless and glossy once more. Widow and Captain America glance at one another. She strides up to the same spot. Nothing happens. Natasha, reasoning that perhaps she does not weigh enough for the sensors, or whatever spooky force initiates the bridge, to detect her presence, jumps up several times and slams her feet down on the base, succeeding only in making the floor light flare up. She folds her arms and frowns at Captain America.

Captain America curiously steps up beside her. They wait, standing particularly close to one another for good measure. Nothing comes of it.

"Maybe it only works once," Captain suggests. Widow drums her fingers on her arm impatiently. She turns on her heel and tries another spot. After several more attempts, she gives up.

"I guess we're officially split up," she informs him. From the sound of it, or lack thereof, Thor comes to a similar conclusion at the same moment and stops smashing his hammer against the barrier wall above. Widow selects the left passage and marches into it with Captain America following close behind.

The episode back in the intersection has her thinking. She likes analyze everything and does not particularly care for mysteries she cannot explain. "Do you think the traps are activated by touch?" Widow muses aloud.

"What do you mean?" Captain America asks, scanning their surrounds vigilantly as they venture on.

"The walls. This place. It's like it could see right through you back there, right into what you were most afraid of."

The Captain considers her theory, unsettled by thinking of this crystal city as a creature rather than a structure. He would rather not believe that. He would rather believe that someone is pulling the strings behind the scenes. Individuals are much easier to fight than giant entities made of hooey and hocus pocus. Clearly, the Cerael are not friendly hosts. Outsiders are not welcome in their midst. Perhaps the entire city is somehow enchanted… but alive? "Face your fears and break the illusion," he reiterates. "I guess it's possible." He does not want to admit it, but he does anyway.

Beside him, Widow dips her chin in a subtle nod. She glances at her hand, remembering when she touched the crystal. She wonders, briefly, what she is most afraid of.

They stop in their tracks when a growl, or perhaps a groan, swims through the air. It echoes on and on and on. They can hear slow, heavy thuds in the distance, though it is difficult to pinpoint with the ricochet effect. The suspense is immensely uncomfortable. An enormous shadow bobs onto the wall where the passage bends up ahead.

"No way," Captain America blanches.

The gigantic beast lumbers into sight. _Of course._ Widow groans.

"Seriously?" the Captain says to her.

* * *

Thor's steps take him down the hall, the vibrant blue of his eyes accentuated by the pale light from below. It is still cold enough to occasionally see puffs of his breath, but the air is slightly warmer on this level, likely because the tunnel is cramped and heat rises. His armor and cape are heavy with water. He is worried for his friends below, but after experiencing his inability to help the Captain out of his predicament, he reasons his presence will make no difference during their journey. They will reunite eventually. This tunnel is not like old passage. It is one continuous hallway, straight as an arrow, the darker crystal of the domed wall jagged and treacherous.

At long last, the tunnel ends. The ceiling slopes upward, endlessly. He comes to the tallest, steepest set of stairs he has ever had the unfortunate pleasure to encounter, stacking up into the darkness. Thor commences the long and arduous climb. After perhaps the thousandth ledge, he begins to grumble to himself. Because he has nothing else to occupy his mind, aside from complaining, his thoughts stray to Lola. Moreover, he begins to soak in the authenticity of Captain America's feelings for her. It is not every mortal, super or not, who would risk so much for one who terrorized their home planet. It is most perplexing. Until yesterday, he was not aware Lola, or Loki as he prefers, was even capable of sincerity. Then again, Thor knows firsthand how easy it is to fall in love. Sometimes, a matter of days is all it takes.

Captain America would not be doing this for Loki... unless…

* * *

The battle between Iron man and his doppelganger is taking a serious toll on him. Every attack attempt goes awry. His ego is nearly as bruised as his body. The imposter is relentless and exhibits uncanny accuracy regarding every weakness of his, namely the Arc reactor. He is struck in the shoulder and plunges into the asphalt. "Mr. Stark, your levels are reaching critical."

Stark manages to respond. "You know what?" Rolling aside to dodge another energy blast, "I take it back. I look sexy. Sort of rugged. Must have been the light. Jarvis, when this is all over, let's submit a petition to change the wattage in the street lamp network."

The mechanized voice sounds distant and uncommonly sepulchral. "… I'll see what I can do, sir."

Meanwhile, a ring of Ceraelians are advancing on Hulk. After a flash of light, they form a concentric circular cage, mutating into lofty walls made of the same material that comprises the crystal city. The transplasma is unbreakable.

"NO CAGE!" Hulk hollers. He roars in rage. He rushes headlong into the barrier, barreling into it over and over in various places in an attempt to find a breaking point. The living cage holds fast. He slams his heavy fists against the unforgiving rampart. He pushes and punches and kicks. The wall is so tall that he cannot clear it by jumping. He tries to scramble up and slides down with a disparaging thud. He is trapped.

Outside the Smithsonian, a mortified Hawkeye is being pursued by a gang of killer clowns. Much to his chagrin, he is unreservedly terrified of them. His fear is rather ironic, being that he grew up in the circus, and he has no idea how they know, because no one does… because he does not talk about it. _Ever_. His arrows are useless and the feathered charges do nothing upon detonation save for demolish surrounding buildings. Barton has to face the facts.

They cannot win this fight. The Capitol is taken.

* * *

Captain America and Black Widow are sprinting down the cobalt corridor with Hulk at their heels.

"Does Bruce know about this?" Captain shouts above the bellowing roars. Funny enough, this is probably the perfect place for the Hulk to live, albeit the atmospheric toxicity. He can't break anything. "But this can't possibly be the real Hulk. The real Hulk is on Earth!"

"He looks real enough to me!" she screams back. They veer back into the chamber where Thor disappeared. Captain America grabs the corner and seizes Widow by the wrist, yanking her around into his arms instead of and racing out onto the floor. Hulk comes galloping behind them, but has such great momentum that he cannot make the sharp turn. He loses his footing and slides out onto the floor, skidding and slipping as he tries to adjust his course. He crashes into the far wall. Widow looks around, searching for their next move. They cannot run forever. The walls are not apt for climbing. Meanwhile, Hulk is finding his feet, or fists rather.

"Ma'am," the Captain says to her, meaning it fondly. "This is all you." There is encouragement in his eyes, but it does nothing to buoy her confidence. Widow tears her attention from his face to the Hulk. She is having trouble concealing the fact that she is shaking like a leaf as the monstrous green beast paws the floor and plods towards them. Insomuch as she respects Bruce Banner, she fears the Hulk much more so. Her experience with him on SHIELD's floating fortress was less than pleasant. The Widow prays on weaknesses and deception, but there is no fooling the Hulk. He is not swayed by her feminine charms. He has no weaknesses. She is terrified of him. But then again, Captain America is right. This cannot be the real Hulk. This is an image, a dangerous tangible image, but an image none the less. Hulk roars and charges. Captain America immediately takes action, positioning himself in front of Widow, ready to throw his shield. She ducks under his arm and dashes forward.

"Natasha!" the Captain hollers, but she does not stop. She races headlong at Hulk, plants her feet, fists her hands, and yells… not unlike the Hulk himself. She stands before him like a predator, poised to pounce. Hulk clumsily skids to a stop. He watches her warily, his eyes darting over her. He appears confused. She fills her chest and squares her shoulders. Hulk leans down, baring his teeth. Widow glowers up at him and snarls back, keeping her expression hard and determined. Captain America is plainly astonished. He holds his breathe. Before their eyes, Hulk begins to shrink until Bruce Banner stands before them. The corner of his lip kicks up into a smile. He winks and vanishes. Widow's heart is hammering in her chest. Captain America practically faints from relief.

Suddenly, the fraction of the floor under Natasha's feet begins to rise. "Captain!" she prompts. The secret spire has been activated. Captain America races forward. Widow kneels just in time to catch his hand when he jumps up. His weight nearly yanks her clean off her roost, but she manages to keep her balance. His feet scramble for purchase on the sheer crystal tower. Together, they eventually reel him up. The tower stops growing and the ramp extends to the new opening in the wall. "This is just like Super Mario!" Widow says triumphantly, striking a victory pose. Captain America looks clueless. She laughs and shakes her head. "Nevermind Steve." Black Widow and Captain America grin at one another and hasten across the bridge.

* * *

Thor stops on the stairs and looks upwards, poised to continue. His brow furrows. He can see the landing peering out of the shadows another hundred or so steps away. He is close. He can feel it.

Here, Thor is besieged with a new burden. Their quarrels, differences, and tenuous relations notwithstanding, is he ready to let Loki go? Is Thor willing to step aside and relinquish Loki to someone else? He realizes it is unfair of him to expect otherwise. He cannot have both Jane _and_ Loki. He loves Jane. He loves Loki too, but not in precisely the same manner. The disparity is tough to put into words. It has always been hard for him to vocalize his feelings. He was hell-bent on giving Loki a piece of his mind back at the base though. He was so irate in fact that he must have wandered in circles elsewhere for quite some time before he finally stumbled across them in the bunking sector.

Another thought occurs to him. Unlike Steve, Loki, erm.. Lola, never saw him and the doppelganger together together and likely remains under the impression that he is the cause of her predicament. She will not know him from the imposter. Captain America is not with him to convince her otherwise. This is assuming Loki is… still alive. He cannot think that way. Thor starts to climb again with renewed fervor.

Thor arrives at the broad landing, tapering off to a solitary set of double doors in the shape of a pentagon. Bracketing the doors are two torches mounted in crystal sconces. Their flames burn a bizarre mix of blue and gold.

* * *

Lola drifts in and out of unconsciousness, exhausted by the perpetual pain that is making her delirious. In this compromised state, she is as close to mortal as she has ever been. The knife's blade is unyielding. The moments drag on and on. She does not recall when The Other disappeared. She hears nonsensical conversations and other unintelligible noises. She turns her face towards a more familiar sound, that of a door opening, and a sharp edged shape of light outlining what must be a doorway. A silhouette stands there, tall and arresting as a mountain. Her feverish mind is nearly maddened enough to hope it is Rogers. But, as the figure approaches, her worst fears are confirmed. Lola chokes on something between a laugh and a sob and turns her head in the opposite direction.

_Of course_ it is Thor. _Of course_ he would come to her one last time, to mock her, to close his vicious deal, to exact vengeance of the worst kind, to see her off. Perhaps he has come to demand payment from The Other as well. She wills him not to speak to her, but fate is deaf to her pleas and he kneels beside her.

"Loki?" Thor croaks, having the audacity to sound horrified. Lola rolls her eyes, gritting her teeth through another painful muscle spasm. "Loki," he says again. Lola is wracked with agony, battling against the urge to respond and the instinctual desire to tense up. She just wants him to leave. "It is I." She closes her eyes and curses him. Naturally, she knows it is him! She is dying, not _daft_. "It was not me. I could never betray you like that," he persists. She is anesthetized to his lies. She will not be fooled again. Lola whimpers in spite of herself when Thor gathers her into his arms. His touch makes her clammy skin crawl, but she is too weak to resist. "Please," he begs. "Look at me." Lola opens her eyes, but she does not look at him. Thor does not beg. Even less does he beg to _her_. He continues. "I searched for you for weeks." She wonders why he is telling her this yet _again_. "And it took me a great while to realize why. I had not even planned far enough ahead to know what I would do with you when I found you. I know I am rash and unreasonable… and a slew of other things according to you. I know. I am not like you. And perhaps that is why I admired you so, and still do." Lola can barely uncover the vigor to frown. "I have envied you for many years. I have envied your way with words, your intellect, your grace… I did not see. I did not realize-"

"Stop it," she forces out hoarsely. She swallows, but it is not helping anymore. "Leave me."

"I have come here to liberate you. We-"

She cannot fend off the seizing muscles anymore. They tense and coil, the knife cutting into new flesh. "_You_ - brought me here," she whispers.

"No!" he insists passionately. He is quite convincing. "No, I did not. That was an imposter, a trick. I could never- You know I could never! I love you!" Lola finally looks up into his familiar face. His eyes, crinkled at the edges, are shimmering with tears. His cheeks are wet, the drops catching in his short blonde net of beard. There is nothing but honesty radiating from those clear, vivid blues. She knows him. She knows now.

Thor. _Her _Thor.

A tremendous amount of relief fills her up. She should have known Thor would never. The pain is waning and with it goes the cold. She can hardly feel it now. Instead, she is strangely comfortable… and immensely tired. Like her eyes, the rest of her body are also growing heavy, numb, and distant. Lola understands. She has nothing left. The quiet realization must have surfaced in her face.

Thor's eyes widen with concern. He closes his hand around the hilt of the dagger to pull it out. She reaches up and lays her hand over his. Thor looks at her, his eyes floundering in a sea of tears and confusion. Lola remembers what The Other said. She does not want that on Thor's conscience. She shakes her head gently. There is acceptance in her gaze, but Thor's is a different story entirely. "I love you," he professes again, as though he expects the words to heal her. He does not understand that they already have.

Thor begins to shake his head, bracing his hand against her jaw, his rough thumb smoothing a few damp strands of black hair from her cheek. "No. Loki, please. Hold on. _Please_." His robust veneer is cracking. Still, he is sinfully handsome. He will always be sinfully handsome. As will Rogers. No. She is dazedly amused when she realizes that Rogers is even more so. She wants to respond, but the power to speak has left her. Thor_ knows_ she loves him. He knows because she said it mere hours ago. The most she can manage is a shallow smile. In those last few seconds, she is no longer staring into Thor's face, but gazing into Steve's blue eyes.

She can no longer keep her eyes open. _We_, Thor said. So, Rogers couldn't stay away after all. In the blackening privacy of her mind: _I love you too_, she imparts, but it is not addressed to Thor. She is laying in bed, enveloped in an oversize shirt. Rogers has her under his arm. Nothing can touch her now.

It is finally over.

* * *

The Other advances from the shadows, ready to plunge a jagged danger into Thor's back, when Captain America bursts through the door. He flings his shield at the skulking creature, rendering him unconscious in a single blow. The Other collapses into an undignified heap on the floor, his weapon skidding to a stop at Thor's feet.

Captain America emerges into the faint light. His eyes, brimming with the hope that burns in his blood, search the expanse. His sense of triumph is fleeting. When Thor finally meets his eyes, he is struck by his hollow expression. Thor shakes his head. Captain America cannot comprehend, does not want to understand, what he means… until he sees Lola in Thor's arms. He is compelled to go to her so strongly that he drops his shield as he hurries forward. Thor lays Lola's body on the floor while the Captain watches in shock. Thor stands and turns his face away.

"Lola…?" Captain America's knees buckle and he crumbles beside her, looking on, unable to breathe with his arms limp against his thighs. He reaches up and peels back his mask because it is suffocating him. He hesitantly reaches out, his broad hand shaking uncertainly. He leans over her, checking for a pulse, for a stream of air from her nose. She is still. His shoulders wilt. His spirit withers. Steve shakes his head, beset by denial. They cannot be too late. This _cannot_ be. They have traveled so far and overcome so much, only to be defeated by a felon they cannot fight? ! For Steve, the reality is unacceptable. He promised. He _promised_. He is utterly blindsided by an ending like this, when only seconds before he was certain they would succeed, that for once, in the pursuit of saving something he cherished so fiercely, he would triumph, that he would not be betrayed for needing someone, that he would not fail… this_ one _time.

His expression becomes severely pained. Romanoff, who had more difficulty on the damned stairs than Rogers, runs inside. She gasps but at this point, Steve has forgotten about his two companions. For the moment, the world is completely empty and he is alone with the worst of its pain and the brunt of its guilt. There is no worse feeling. He yearns to be drowning, for the chill of the frigid water to numb the agony, and the pressure of it bearing down on him.

Natasha looks on, her hands cupped over her mouth as she fights to stay composed. She has never witnessed Captain America break and the sight is horrible. Thor cannot watch.

He slides his arm under Lola's back, the other behind her neck, and cradles her close to him. Her body is dreadfully cold, dashing the last of his hopes. Steve squeezes his eyes shut as he presses his forehead against hers. He_ is_ too late. He forces his voice from his throat. "I'm so sorry," he remits hoarsely. There is no farewell, no last moment with her, nothing to sooth the ache in his chest. He rues the day he surrendered to the experiment and loathes himself for welcoming the agony with an open invitation. Sure, his body can endure tremendous punishment time and time again. If only they had endowed his heart with the same strength. What good is a hero if he cannot save the ones he loves?

"Kiss her," someone proclaims. Steve glances back at Natasha, sick with his grief and aghast at what he believes to be a joke in the midst of such a travesty. "Don't give me that look," she manages, gritting her teeth to keep the tears away. "The highest room in the tallest tower," she reminds him, a picture of uncharacteristic sheepishness. She wipes her cheek stubbornly. "It's worked before!"

Steve looks back at Lola's body laying limp in his arms. He is torn between laughing bitterly at Natasha's admission to fairy tale know-how and weeping unreservedly. The suggestion is plainly ridiculous. This is no fairy tale. In fact, the idea of embracing a corpse should be revolting.

Still… _Maybe_…

The suggestion is foolish, but like a fool, he lets the possibility rekindle hope in his heart. He swallows thickly. The thought occurs to him offhandedly that he should remove the dagger first. It's a stupid notion. He does it anyway. Steve wraps his fingers around the hilt, struck by the strange tingling in his palm, trying not to let it fan the flame of optimism. He blinks warily. His brows knit together. He extracts the blade which slides free.

His lips hover above hers. He wonders if it should be a real kiss, or a quick peck. His bashfulness and stomach would rather the later. But he doesn't want to look like an idiot. What will she think, should she wake up? Will she be offended? Will- Steve's eyes snap open when he feels a cold hand around his daggered fist.

"If you're going to kiss me, can you at least wait until I'm conscious?" Lola smiles weakly. Steve cannot believe his eyes. Bewildered, he stares with wonder into her face. Thor and Natasha are just as stunned. "I should have realized it sooner," she says. "The Other said _I _could not remove the dagger, lest I die." Her illusion was broken when she realized Thor was not responsible and all would be well once he removed the dagger. But, because she did not know that at the time, she had stopped him, believing he would blame himself should she die. She can feel her magic coursing through her again.

Lola reaches up and caresses Steve's cheek. "You're crying," she says too gently. "It is alright now," she reassures…

because, yes

it rectifies everything.


	12. Episode 12 Artifact

The hunting party stands speechless. Steve is smiling, his eyes alight in dazzling blue, beholding her like a precious gem. Lola averts her eyes.

"I must look a mess," she relents sheepishly, somewhat ashamed to be seen in such an unprepossessing state. But Steve is still looking at her as though she is the most beautiful creature in the cosmos. Lola notices the darker sheen to his hair and the stray strands that fall over his forehead. In fact, his arms feel damp.

"Why are you all wet?" she asks, attempting to chuckle as she reaches up to brush his hair from his brow. Steve just slowly shakes his head, his smile expanding by the second. He has only just brought her close enough to touch their foreheads together when Thor suddenly shoulders his way past Steve, bumping him aside with the awe inspiring might he remains endearingly oblivious to. He swallows Lola up in his arms, holding fast to her oddly feeble figure. He fits the bridge of his nose against the crook of her neck. She feels his broad hands find purchase in the fabric of her shirt. The desperation of the embrace is a testament to how gripping his terror was. She realizes that, possibly for the first time in his life, Thor God of Thunder was afraid.

Lola, who can see nothing beyond his hunched form and bulky shoulders, is momentarily paralyzed by the sincerity of the action. She gradually brings her slender arms around his neck and folds herself against him. She squeezes her eyes shut and clutches to him as tightly as she possibly can, which to her chagrin is a feather's weight in comparison.

"My benevolent lion…" she whispers and sighs. She is so focused on soothing him that she does not notice he is picking her up until her feet leave the floor and dangle just above his boots. He carefully sets her down. He steadies her when she sways, his hands never leaving her. Steve is standing close by, but she can tell he is taking great measures not to encroach on their time. He is more prudent than to interrupt where Thor is concerned. She meets Rogers' eyes, which are searching yearningly for hers. A weary smile crosses her pale lips. She leans her head against Thor's chest, gazing at Steve in a way she has never gazed at anyone.

_Thank you_, she mouths. There is a resigned expression on his handsome face and as he dips his chin the way any dutiful soldier would, she is overcome with affection. She sweeps her hair back into place, the damp strands drying.

A raspy laugh snaps their attention to The Other, who lays sprawled out on the ground where he fell. He bears his bloodstained teeth in a crooked grin, his hood thrown back to reveal his revolting face. Thor protectively brings her closer against him and brandishes his hammer towards the fiend. Hoarsely, "How touching," The Other croaks. His sibilant voice makes her skin crawl. "But your reunion is in vain. You may have rescued your _princess_… but you shall never find your way out of this labyrinth."

"Then you will lead us there," Rogers demands, fisting his red hands and angling his body towards The Other aggressively.

He coughs. "Why would I do that?"

Natasha loads a fresh magazine into her gun. "We'll persuade you."

He laughs, the sickly sound making Lola cringe. "Kill me then. You haven't the time to find the exit, even if I tell you. Even now, the fumes are enveloping the city. You are all doomed."

"Then so are you," Natasha rebuts.

"Fumes?" Lola repeats. "What is this place?" she asks the group collectively, her eyes darting from figure to figure.

"We're on Ceras," Rogers tells her.

Her mind is dazed by confusion. "Ceras?"

"Aye. The Empress has aligned herself with this scum," Thor proclaims, his attention locked on The Other. Lola's eyes widen and she stares at The Other as well. The Ceraelians and the Chitauri, cooperating together? The irony is difficult to stomach. She feels more strength leave her legs and she grits her teeth.

The Empress is _using_ her. Even now she is using her to further her own ends by drawing the Avengers away from Earth. It is very much something Lola would do. But naturally, no one but Lola is allowed to do it. _Wretch._ Lola will have to muddle through the shock that three, not one, but three Avengers came to her aid later. She has been made a fool and deemed a pawn, an expendable piece in the Empress' game. The shrew tricked her into believing Thor would deceive and betray her. It cut her so deeply. Lola knows she is watching them, convinced the entire palace is one giant spyglass. Lola feels a surge of power. Her relief is upended by rage.

"It's a long story," Natasha pipes up. "But we'll have to fill you in as we go."

Rogers nods. "Natasha's right. Let's split."

Thor snarls, his rough brow creased by angry folds. "What of _him_?"

He just finishes as a jagged shard of ice sails through the air and impales The Other through the chest.

* * *

Amidst the gurgling keens of agony, Rogers whips his attention to Lola who remains close to Thor, streams of his white breath misting the air. His pulse flatlines and his eyes widen in disbelief, noticing the blue of her skin and the red of her eyes. But it is the feral smile on her face that disturbs him the most. Flakes of ice are crystallizing on the seams of his suit as the temperature of the room plummets.

No one moves as Lola steps forward, freeing herself from a noticeably shaken Thor's arms. She approaches The Other, walking on her own, drawing from strength he was certain he did not possess a moment ago. Her attire changes, morphing into a familiar fitted green and black robe, tailored to hug her feminine figure, festooned like the royalty she is. She inclines her chin as a pointed golden band appears at her hairline. Familiar satanic horns curve up from the simple crown. It is not exactly like the helmet he remembers, but the resemblance is undeniable. If he had any doubts before that Lola was Loki, they have left him now. She is beautiful… and terrifying.

"You think you know pain?" she asks The Other in a particularly vindictive purr. She extends her hand and begins to spread her blue fingers. Rogers watches the ice shard splinter into smaller pieces that worm their way into The Other's flesh and disappear into his body. He shrieks, emitting sounds more akin to a dying animal than a man. Roger's stomach flips. "You know it now. Hear me Vyctraes. This is but a taste of what you shall endure when we meet again."

"Wait-!" The Other gasps, writhing in agony. "Please! I will tell you!" he chokes out. "There is an underground passage—beneath the stair-!" Lola remains deaf to his pleas and merely smirks, a backhanded thanks for the confession. He screams and wails as purplish blood begins to ooze from his nose, mouth, ears, and eyes. The tips of countless ice shards emerge from his body and like a stuck pig, he quickly bleeds out. The Other is still.

Thor, who has never seen Loki's Frost Giant form, stands slackjawed. He drops his hammer.

And the floor… cracks!

After the sobering thud, "What was…?" Natasha hurries forward and practically falls next to the small miracle, the bone chilling cold affecting her usually fluid movements. Her teeth are chattering. Sure enough, the floor beneath the weighty weapon is spidered with cracks. "Look!" she tells them. Thor kneels beside her. "The temperature drop! The crystal breaks when it's colder than normal!" she announces. "This is huge! We know their weakness now. If we can somehow create—" Her voice fades away.

Rogers is too troubled by the gruesome execution to take his eyes off Lola. He is curious in the way a child is curious of a poisonous blossom as she peers over her shoulder at Thor and Widow. He had forgotten. He had forgotten that beneath the delicate feminine exterior, she is an incalculably powerful alien being. He wants to go to her, to finish the moment he still longs for, that plays over and over in his head. He misses the closeness, affection, and vulnerability. He yearns to experience the sensation that she_ needs _him. If only he had been a mite braver. If only he had manned-up kissed her when he had the chance. She seems so unapproachable now – remote and invincible. There is a wall around her so thick that it is practically touching his chest. The short distance between them feels unbridgeable. Though his limps are stiff with cold, his heart is hammering and the blood in his chest boils. She stands like a god, like an angelic demon, like a celestial villain, like something absolutely unattainable. She is different… and the same. She needs no one, not like this.

Rogers feels robbed of something he cannot identify.

He wants her. But just as much if not more so, he wants her to want him. Lola's attention swivels his way. Their eyes meet. Captain America instinctively tenses up, but Steve Rogers is stung by the blatant hatred in her ruby leer. Her expression gradually thaws. She looks away.

His desires will have to wait. Now, there is the matter of getting out.

* * *

Nick Fury addresses The Council in the videoconference room, standing proudly with his head high and his feet shoulder width apart. His confidence is shaken, but he does not let it show. Tensions are high and the subject matter is grave.

"Is the President safe, Director?" the woman on the middle screen begins.

"Yes. He and his family have been moved to a secure, undisclosed location."

The man on the left says, "We are in dire straits Director. The Capitol is lost. I don't think we have to tell you what that means."

"Or how it looks," the man on the right adds.

Fury dips his chin accordingly. "I understand your concern, councilmen."

The woman sounds perturbed. "_Where_ is the other half of your team, Director?"

Fury pops his jaw discreetly. He still isn't happy with the three of them for leaving without his permission. Then again, Loki's know-how is somewhat indispensible at this moment in time. Their actions are justified from a strategic standpoint. He chooses not to acknowledge they went for other reasons. "Captain America and Black Widow are accompanying Thor on a mission offworld."

The man on the right looks mystified. "… Offworld?" He clears his throat and changes tactics. "Don't we need them here?"

"What mission could be more pressing than the defense of their country?" the woman in the middle hisses, clearly incensed.

Fury selects his words carefully. "They have gone to retrieve an… artifact that should help us defeat the invaders. What's more, the United States is _not _Thor's country. He has adopted Earth, if you take my meaning. We should consider ourselves lucky Asgard is even batting an eyelash."

The woman drums her fingers against her desk. "What sort of artifact?"

"One that can provide insight. We are doing the best we can. Vibranium, duranium, grenades, tanks, energy blasts… Nothing scratches them. We know very little about the enemy."

The man on the right stammers, "They've made no demands? No offers?"

"Tell me, Ron. How many science fiction flicks have you seen where the invaders give an ultimatum? These are aliens, councilman. Not terrorists. They're here for an extermination. Nothing more."

"What is the casualty rate thus far?" the woman demands.

"As it stands, the official death toll is roughly twenty seven hundred. But the unofficial number, we estimate, is over ten thousand."

The man on the left sits back and steeples his fingers. "We do not approve of the way this is being handled, Director."

"What would you like me to do? Send them a fruit basket?"

"We are running out of time. We need them back _now_."

The woman purses her lips. "What is the status of the weapons created from studying the Tesseract?"

"They are unfinished. And without the Tesseract, they cannot be operated," Fury remits.

"What of the rest of the Avengers?" the man on the right inquires.

Fury closes his good eye and sighs through the nose. "Banner and Stark were airlifted from the field. We sustained extensive losses during the rescue. Stark remains in critical condition. Agent Barton is… still missing. We suspect he has been taken prisoner." Mostly because after the recent loss of Coulson, no one wants to assume anything else.

"Will the Iron Man recover in a_ timely_ fashion?" the woman asks. Her haughty voice grates against his nerves.

"Our best are working on him now. It seems the Arc Reactor suffered heavy damage from what he describes as a clone of himself." Fury sets his teeth. "I will be frank. These… things… were able to contain _Hulk_ – a feat our military could never accomplish. I am not certain, unless a weakness is gleaned from this artifact, that we can defeat them, even if Thor and the rest are present. All our hope is with them, council members. So instead of harping on their whereabouts, you best pray they do not return empty-handed. Because if they cannot find this artifact, they shouldn't bother coming back at all."

* * *

The four of them stand on the topmost landing, gazing down into the infinite blackness of the abyss that shrouds the ground level. Captain America and Thor begin the descent. Lola's eyes shift to Widow who does not move. She has her arms locked over her chest, gazing down gravely, shivering from time to time. Widow must have sensed the attention because he glances at her. Her lips are tinted blue and the color is leaving her face. She dodges her glance, but not before a flash of defeat passes over her eyes. Natasha is human. And her human body, as resilient and persistent as she is, cannot weather this harsh environment for much longer. They have no time to climb. Lola kneels and lays her blue hands on the ledge of the landing.

"What are you doing?" Natasha asks, sounding suspicious. Below, Thor and Captain America pause and turn to look back at them. This crystal transplasmic material, Lola has realized, amplifies her power. It makes sense, due to the distant relation between Ceraelians and Frost Giants. She does not need water, or any other outside energy, to create ice. A glacier-like sheet appears at the summit of the stairs and jets downward, forming what Natasha recognizes, to her delight, is a slide.

Lola stands and dusts her hands off. Thor shoulders his hammer and smirks. He jumps onto the glacier, poised with one foot in front of the other, and slides down… standing. Lola rolls her eyes and puffs a strand of black hair from her face. Captain America looks at her. She flits her hand through the air dismissively. He nods. Captain America treks back up the steps, removes his shield, and places it face down on the lip of the landing tangenting onto the makeshift slide. He takes a seat. While Rogers holds his shield in place with his hands on the floor, Widow climbs aboard and wiggles in behind him. She wraps her arms around his waist with an ecstatic grin on her face. Lola suspects Rogers took the front so he can cushion the impact when they go shooting off the end, sliding over the floor, and possibly crashing into a wall._ So noble._

Lola places her boot on the anterior rim of the shield. Rogers glances back at her. He looks considerably less thrilled than Natasha does. Lola smirks and wrinkles her nose. Steve gives her this pathetic, pleading, blank faced look, wrapping his red gloved hand around Natasha's arm. Lola waves her fingers at him… and shoves with her leg.

Captain America and Black Widow zoom down the slide like a bullet from a gun. She can hear Natasha cheering and shrieking with joy all the way down. Clearly, the woman is an adrenaline junkie. Steve on the other hand, not so much. She wonders, briefly, if he will ever forgive her.

Now there is the matter of Lola getting down. _The things I endure for these fools,_ she relents in despair. She sighs and vanishes her horned crown. She carefully toes her way towards the slide and peers down into the blackness. There is a shout, a clang, a thud, and then Natasha bursts into a fit of psychotic giggles.

"Alright Br- erm… Sister! It is your turn now!" Thor's voice booms up, sounding tremendously far off.

Lola massages her temples. "OH for Asgard's sake, you bumbling oaf! We are _not _related!" she screams back in exasperation. How many times must she remind him?

"Come on Lola! It's great fun!" Natasha calls up from the darkness. Lola groans, certain she would not use that word to describe what she must do next. She is determined to slide down like Thor did. He shall not best her on her own invention. How hard could it be? She is a graceful individual. If he can do it, so can she.

She carefully posts her foot on the steep glacier, readies herself to situate the other, removes her support from the stairs… and slips. She lands hard on the ice. The undignified event pans out precisely the way she does not want it to. She scrambles to correct herself, but it is too late. She flies down the slide, spinning and tumbling before she finally rights herself somewhat properly. She has half a mind to scream, but manages to contain the urge. The black, glossy world blurs around her, bleeding together like a dark Bifrost until she sees three distant figures appear at the bottom landing.

Rogers positions himself directly in her path as if to catch her, which she knows will not work due to the immense amount of momentum she has built up. _Idiot._ Lola rockets off the end and collides with Rogers, bowling him over with an "OOMPH!" THUD _grunt _screeeeech as they slide across the luminous crystal.

When the world is still, Lola groans, squirming some. She realizes she is lying on top of something that feels frightfully like a body. Her ruby red eyes snap open and she pushes herself up with her palms, her black hair dangling in a disheveled mess around her face. Rogers shifts his weight and props himself up with his elbows. She and Steve stare at one another. She wonders if it is possible to blush in her Frost Giant form. The notion makes her stomach churn, because her cheeks will probably turn a hideous shade of purple. The moment lingers on.

Lola self-consciously purses her lips and collects her wits. "You shouldn't have done that, you dim-witted dolt. Don't you know you might have hurt yourself? I could have broken your empty skull!" She starts to get to her feet, but Roger reaches up, hooks his hand behind her neck, and drags her down, smack into the pillow of his lips. Her hands brace against his chest. She goes rigid, her brows coming together as if she is offended and about to pull away. Rogers won't let her.

This is it.

Her undoing is complete.

She can conjure no excuse, no pithy remark, no mischievous trick or charm to thwart him in spite of the magic that races from his lips through her body. She resigns herself to the kiss and melts into the liplock, her hand traveling to his cheek. She dusts her thumb over the hinge of his Spartan's jaw. Sensing her surrender, his iron grasp softens. She feels his nose against her cheek and the warmth of his breath on her flesh. Beginning from her lips, her blue skin fades to white as her Asgardian form regains control.

_This_ **is** it.

Finally, Lola knows precisely where she belongs.


	13. Episode 13 Where to Begin

If the circumstances were different, Natasha would commend Steve for his bravery. His is a gutsy move. It deserves a pat on the back.

But the circumstances are not different. No.

She is standing within swinging distance, directly in the line of fire, of a giant blonde thunder tank who may or may not still have issues about the woman Steve is snogging. Thor, blooded heir of Asgard, most frequently a gentle giant, is red faced mad. Natasha has never seen him like this. He clenches his great fists, fuming like a wild bull, the nasal puffs of white breath into the cold air looking more like steam than anything else. She sidles away as inconspicuously as she can. His reaction perplexes her a little, because it is the way a brother might react to witnessing a little sister being kissed, but as Lola has pointed out on various occasions, they are not related. So that cannot be it. In another light, she realizes he is reacting like a jealous lover. Natasha, who remains in the dark about a lot of things, looks between Thor and the couple a few paces away. The truth dawns on her.

Obviously, Thor is in love with Steve.

He is in love with Steve, but conflicted about his relationship with Jane, which keeps him at arm's length. And now Lola is in the picture. Oh, the drama! This is better than the second season finale of All My Children.

Unaware that she has it all wrong, Natasha sighs and massages her temples. "What happened to keeping it professional, team? So much UST," she mumbles. Then again, she is one to talk. Her love interest is part of the initiative too. It is hard not to fall for the only people you ever get to spend time with, the people who you can relate to the most.

"What is this _UST_?" Thor asks, frowning in earnest. Natasha rises up on her toes, leans towards him cautiously, and gives him a stiff pat on the shoulder. She turns on her heel and strides away to search for this underground passage The Other mentioned. The idea is ideal, being that they can hardly go waltzing around outside in the toxic storm. There is no way they would overcome the crater's wall while holding their breath. He said it was under the stairs. She begins poking around the base, careful to avoid the melting ice. Her clothes are still damp. Natasha knows she is going to come down with a serious case of the sneezes from this mess.

A gravelly voice startles her.

* * *

"What am I to do?" Thor asks, kneeling beside her, pretending to search as well. He is genuinely conflicted, wrestling with the irrational anger and resentment. Thor is not accustomed to seeking counsel, least of all from a mortal woman. He allowed Jane to guide him to recognize his own faults, but not necessarily in a direct way.

Natasha shrugs. "You can do whatever you want to. Unrequited love makes for a great story, but a lousy ending. I would tell him and have it out."

Because Thor is still unaccustomed to thinking of Loki as a female, he assumes Natasha takes his meaning correctly and the _him _she mentions is the_ him_ he means. "But I _have_ told him."

She balks. "You have?"

He recalls his confession upstairs as Loki lay dying. "Yes. Only moments ago."

Natasha blinks, her face blank. "Woah. Talk about bad timing. What did he say?"

"He said nothing." He sighs. "I thought I lost him." Dejectedly, "I have loved him for so long."

She frowns. "But you only met last year."

"We were reunited last year," he corrects. Because he and Loki_ were_ reunited last year. Before then, all of Asgard was under the impression Loki was dead.

Surprised, "You knew him before the whole ice incident?"

Natasha seems to be all over the place with this conversation. It takes Thor some time to draw a correlation to what she is referring to – Loki's discovery of his true parentage. "Of course. He has never quite come to terms with it. Our relations have always been rocky, but they have been much worse since that day."

"I've heard he still has pretty bad nightmares about it." She purses her lips incredulously. "You've sure done a good job of keeping it a secret from the rest of the team."

Thor wonders where Natasha heard that Loki loses sleep over his identity issues. He remembers the nightmare incidents well. "Personal matters have no place in our missions. But I cannot seem to escape them, now that we are together again."

Natasha hooks her unruly hair behind her ears. "So how deep does this go? Have you guys…?"

Thor averts his eyes. He is ashamed to admit it because of the scandal it entails. "Yes. Quite often."

Natasha flushes. "Quite _often_?" she chokes. "Where do you find the time? !"

Thor lowers his voice. "There was always time back at the palace," he mumbles.

Natasha's jaw drops and her brows knit together, as though she takes offense. In a harsh whisper, "You've taken Steve to Asgard before now? !"

Thor is blindsided with confusion, as if he were whacked in the face with a two-by-four. "… Steve?"

They stare at each other for a long, awkward moment. Natasha glances over her shoulder at the couple and then back to Thor. If he does not mean Steve… "Did I miss something?" Natasha manages eventually.

* * *

Steve's heart soars like an eagle on the wind. It is better than the best Fourth of July. It is emerging victorious in a battle against all the odds. As Lola's hand slides up to frame his neck and lays against him, he is convinced that seeing fireworks is not a figure of speech at all. This kiss is the singular most vindicating act he has ever performed. His inhibitions are erased… and he can't seem to find where his old fashioned ideals ran off to. The way they fit together leaves no room to be timid, no place for his shyness. Yet, even sandwiched together like this, he just can't seem to get close enough. Mr. Modest officially has a newfound hatred for clothing.

"I found it!" Natasha exclaims triumphantly. Their lips come apart, the kiss on pause. Lola stares into his eyes while Steve stares breathlessly back and, bless her for letting him, he sees it. She _does_ need him. Her sea-green eyes are sparkling as they track across his face. Steve's attention keeps darting to her lips. And then, she beams – a pearly explosion of stars. Lola throws her arms around his neck and bowls him flat onto the floor, crashing their lips together all over again.

"Oh for Putin's sake! Can't you two wait a few more hours? We have a schedule to keep!" Natasha shouts. Steve chuckles against Lola's lips and rolls them over, his hand braced against the ground, wrapping the opposite arm around the small of her back. "We'll leave you here if we have to!" she warns. Steve knows she is right. The kiss breaks and Steve gets to his feet. Lola takes his outstretched hand and he helps her up. "Hurry! It's closing!" Natasha shouts. Steve, who does not relinquish his grasp on Lola's hand, jogs with her towards the doorway. Lola manages to snatch up the Captain's shield and the duo makes it through the opening just in time.

* * *

As the band proceeds with caution down the corridor, Thor in the lead and Captain America covering the back, Natasha fills in the missing pieces of their venture for Lola. The tunnel slopes downward and eventually the walls become rough and wild, not smooth and sculpted like the walls of the palace. Some of the crystals jutting out from the walls give off a luminous blue glow, lighting the way. There are times when it sounds as though the cavern is breathing. Lola can no longer feel the weight of disembodied eyes. They are safe from Vyctraes for now.

"Where do you suppose this tunnel lets out?" Lola inquires.

Natasha is rubbing her arms to stimulate the circulation. "If we're lucky? Somewhere near the Bifrost thing."

Lola blanches and stops in her tracks. "You came by way of the Bifrost?"

"Yeah," Natasha says flatly. "How else did you think we got here?"

"But that means, to get back to Earth, we will need to pass through Asgard." Natasha does not seem to understand her distress. Up ahead, Thor stops. He does not look at her, but it is plain enough that he is listening. "I cannot return there," Lola says, speaking past Natasha to the parapet of Thor's back. Thor resumes walking. Lola's morale is shaken. She feels Steve's hand on her arm. He gives her an encouraging squeeze. Heimdall will never let her leave. He is bound to Odin. Thor loves her, but he is bound by duty. She has been rescued from one misfortune only to be thrust into another.

Lola has to face the facts. She will be imprisoned again and the likelihood of escaping twice is extremely low. Lola pivots to face Steve, and wrestles with telling him. She knows he can do nothing about it, but he should be warned. Steve smiles at her warmly, raising his eyebrows as he waits, beholding her with that nauseating level of patience and compassion. Lola manages a smile in return and resumes the journey after Thor and Black Widow, who is lagging behind at a considerable distance. When Lola catches up to Widow, Natasha tugs her alongside her, comes up on her toes, and starts to whisper something in her ear.

* * *

They have been walking for roughly an hour's time when the tunnel starts to slope upwards. Lola notices a yellowy mist collecting overhead. Behind her, Steve has been muttering things for quite some time, speaking to an entity she cannot see. "Keep your heads low," Thor says. "I believe we are approaching the exit." Natasha coughs. Lola knows the gaseous fumes will affect her far quicker than the rest of them. She dispels the enchantment on her clothing, returning to the ruined, bloodstained attire she was captured in. Lola rips off a strip of her blouse and hands it to Natasha, gesturing to hold it over her mouth. Natasha's eyes are alarmingly bloodshot. She nods and begins to breathe through the fabric, using it like a filter. Lola glances back at the Captain uncertainly.

They come to a barricade of crystal pieces, a though the tunnel have been purposely sealed off. There are thin slivers of space nearest the top where lines of yellowy smog are snaking into the tunnel. They have no way of telling how close they are to the bridge mark.

Captain America pulls his mask back into place, adjusting his hold on his shield. "Alright team. Here's the plan. Lola's going to freeze this sucker. Thor, you can use your hammer to get us through. The second that happens, everyone hold your breath. We'll make a break for the imprint and be out of here quicker than say Liberty Bond." He smiles encouragingly. "We've gotten out of tougher jams that this before. No man left behind. Understood?" They all nod.

Lola paces up to the wall and places her hands on the surface. She closes her eyes and alters forms, the blue of her Frost Giant skin looking unnaturally dark against the dim light of the tunnel. She looks even stranger now that she is in her Earth attire. Ice spreads from her hands and combs the wall, solidifying the pieces into a frozen block of shards. When the spell is complete, she immediately shifts out of Frost Giant firm. Lola does not have the strength to use her powers again. She steps back and casts a worried glance at Thor.

They take a collective breath in.

Thor cranks his arm back and brings his hammer down on the wall, reducing it to rubble in a single strike. They survey the landscape cloaked in the tawny cloud of poison, having emerged just beyond the lip of the crater. None of them expected the storm to be so dense. Thor is the first to spot the bridge imprint, perhaps two hundred paces away. He indicates it by pointing with his hammer. They nod and race out over the terrain. At the precise wrong moment, a thicker plume of yellow fog moves in, obscuring things mere inches in front of them. Steve and Natasha become separated from Thor and Lola.

Natasha's lungs are burning. She keeps choking on the itch to cough. This toxic fog stings her eyes. Her vision swims with tears. To make matters worse, Natasha catches the toe of her boot on a jagged cut of crystal and stumbles. When she hits the ground, she accidentally exhales the air she stored up in the cave. She cannot hold her breath anymore. This place has worn her down to the nub. Just when she is about to throw in the towel, she feels two strong arms gather her up. She presses herself tightly against the white star on her Captain's chest.

When Natasha falls, Steve double-backs. He kneels with her, clinging to her, hunkered down like a living bunker, trying to protect her from the poison. He lost sight of Thor and Lola. If he tries to run, he has a greater chance of getting them more lost than accruing the appropriate direction. And he will never leave Natasha. Their best option is to wait and pray for a break in the storm. Steve takes Natasha by the jaw, inclines her chin, and pushes his lips against hers. At first, she looks shocked and confused, the emotions radiating from her eyes. Only when Steve gives her a pleading look does she understand he means to share his air with her. Natasha inhales. She breaks from his lips and huddles against him. Captain America resumes his search, squinting against the deadly storm.

Lola and Thor do not notice two crucial elements are missing until they reach the rim of the mark. Lola seizes Thor's arm and grasps a disk of his chest armor, the panic evident in her eyes. Thor's eyes dart around, searching hastily. It is getting increasingly difficult for Lola to hold her breath, especially with her heart hammering the way it is. Thor begins to twirl his hammer, creating a gust of wind powerful enough to bore a tornado-like hole in the storm. He swings it faster and the gap grows. Lola spots Steve and Natasha at the same moment Steve spots them.

The air is clear in Thor's storm. Natasha gasps and coughs. Captain America picks her up and rushes towards Thor and Lola with some difficultly, the powerful howling gale hindering his speed. They all hurry into the emblem. "Heimdall!" Thor bellows. He stops swinging his hammer and the storm rushes towards them in a tsunami-like wave.

* * *

All four of them are hacking and coughing when they spill onto the glossy base of the Bifrost. Lola groans, bracing her hands on the ground. She looks up, blindsided by the sight of the Allfather, flanked by a small army of Asgardian guards. Heimdall, arresting as ever, stands on the dais, his golden eyes locked on her. _Damn, damn, damn, damn, da-_

"Well?" Odin demands, speaking directly to Thor, who is in the cumbersome process of finding his feet. "Where is Loki?" Lola doesn't move a muscle. How could this be? Surely Odin knows. Yet, as the moments drag by, Odin does not recognize her. He practically refuses to acknowledge she is present at all. Heimdall truly did not inform Odin about the female form? Lola could swear there is a subtle smile in the line of Heimdall's lips.

Thor, looking just as worse for the wear as the rest of them do, simply shakes his head in despair. "Loki is gone, Father. All we found was this girl."

* * *

The relief and the brush with death are too much to bear. The instant they touch down in the barren wasteland that is the New Mexico desert, Lola's body clocks out. She collapses into the dust and will not move again for two days.

* * *

Agent Hill raps her knuckles against the doorjamb and Natasha makes a pathetic attempt to fix her hair. The brunette pokes her head inside. "Hey red," she says, flashing a handsome smile.

Natasha pushes herself into a sitting position, wishing she could take the unsightly oxygen ring out of her nose. "Hi Maria." She adopts a wry expression when she sees the bouquet of carnations and marigolds in Hill's hand. "What happened to the no gifts rule?"

Hill grins. "I broke it." She sets the bouquet aside and strides across the recovery room, seating herself down on the edge of Natasha's bed. "How you feeling?"

"Like shit," Natasha grumbles.

"Well, you're looking good," Hill says playfully, laying her hand over Natasha's hand and giving it an encouraging squeeze.

Natasha chuckles and rolls her eyes, color blooming over her cheeks. In a hurry to change the subject, "What's Clint up to? I haven't seen him yet."

Hill's face resumes its stern and solemn façade. She purses her lips, struggling to find the right words. "That's partially why I'm here. Agent Barton is missing in action."

Natasha sits up straighter. "Missing?" she repeats, blanching.

"Yes. The remainder of the team went to defend the capital while you were gone. We didn't think it was right to tell you in the state you were in. You needed time to recover. You still do." Hill squeezes her hand again. Quickly, "Red, don't you dare. I know you. I don't want you to think any of this is your fault. It's not."

"Damn right," Dr. Banner says, dressed in his sophisticated lab coat and glasses. He crosses to Natasha's IV rack to inject a syringe of something into the drip bag. He sounds preoccupied. "Even if you guys were around, I don't think it would have made any difference whatsoever. Those things are basically unbeatable."

"What happened?" Natasha whispers.

* * *

Lola awakens, yet again, into a dark world. She sits up with a start, half convinced she is back on Ceras and in the clutches of The Other. Her eyes gradually adjust and she finds herself in a room that appears to be some sort of infirmary. She is in bed, draped in some scandalous white gown. Her memories of Ceras and the rescue flood back to her. She relaxes, propped up with pillows in a twin-sized bed. The room is white washed, lined with various machines and charts. There is another bed next to hers, separated by a nightstand and an IV drip. Lola does a double take. Her relief is instantly replaced by irritation.

"You go through clothes like I go through reporters. Rough day?" Stark asks.

"Excessively," she retorts tersely, sinking deeper into the pillows with a sour expression. She stares despondently at the ceiling.

"Yeah. I can relate," he replies. She rolls her eyes and turns over, facing pointedly in the opposite direction. She has no desire to converse with him. Stark, like many times before, does not take the hint. She hears his bed shift and creek as he takes his arms down from behind his head.

"So. You and Steve, huh?" She squeezes her eyes shut, determined not to take the bait. The last thing she wants right now is grief from Tony Stark. He drums his fingers on his stomach. Slyly, "You know. If you want me to talk to him, I can do that."

Lola scoffs and bites. "What would I _possibly _want_ you_ to discuss with him?"

Stark sputters indulgently for a moment. "Well, I mean, the guy _is_ a ninety year old virgin after all."

Lola's eyes snap open. She rolls over, facing Stark and eyeing him incredulously. "Really?" She nestles her head on her hands.

"Oh, without a doubt. Steve blushes during Old Navy commercials. I, on the other hand, have plenty of experience in… nocturnal activities. The pinnacle of sexual prowess, some say." He grins ostentatiously. "After all that super-juice, I'm willing to bet he has a whole lot of BAM down south that he has no clue what to do with. If you wanted me to give him any pointers…"

Lola hides her amusement with a frown. "Why would I not broach the subject myself?"

Stark gives her a look like the answer is as plain a day. "You know how he is."

"Point taken," she concedes. Lola rolls over on her back, considering and musing over the whole idea. The fact that she is conversing with Stark about these matters is hilarious. Clearly, she must be delirious with human medication because she is doing it willingly.

Apparently, he is not through. "So." He sounds like he is practically twiddling his thumbs. Stark must be incredibly lonely down here to chat with her this way. "Since we're on the subject. I'm guessing you," his voice cracks and Lola grins triumphantly. He clears his throat, "You've been around?"

Lola blinks. As her brows knit together, "Around what?"

With a languid shrug, "You know. The palace. The neighborhood. The block. … The planet."

Lola suddenly laughs aloud. Glancing at him, "Are you alluding to my number of lovers?" He gives her the look again, but has the decency to look a little coy. She shakes her head and chuckles. "I have had my share."

"As a guy," he finishes.

He purses her lips, suddenly uncomfortable with being so exposed. Lola is not about to divulge to Tony that, even as a "guy", her bed partners were also male. She takes an avid interest in the ceiling and recalls why she despises him now. Stark has no filter, no sense of what is appropriate and what is not. "Come on," he persists in an encouraging tone. "We're basically having pillow-talk right now. You can tell me anything." She hardens her expression. Stark refuses to admit defeat. "You don't think Steve understands?"

Lola responds candidly, "I do not believe he would feel the same, were I in my natural state."

"Oh? Cause he's Catholic?" Lola huffs in frustration. "Word is he laid one on you in smurf form."

Smurf, no doubt, is some sort of jab at her Frost Giant body. She had no idea humans created slighted names for them. Coldly, "That is _not _what I meant."

Stark chuckles. She wants to strangle him. "You don't think he hopes_ you_ would feel the same about him if he wasn't all roided out? Still the skinny Irish kid from old Manhattan?" Lola's frigid scowl thaws. That idea has never occurred to her before. She forgot that Steve did not always look the way he does now either. "Both of you have undergone some pretty intense transformations. I really don't think you guys comprehend just how much you have in common, how alike you really are." He chuckles again. "Steve wasn't always such a looker. Now, yeah. Sure. I'll be the first to admit he's damn sexy. But you… I mean, shit." He laughs. "You're a god for crying out loud. You don't think he might feel a bit intimidated? Kate Beckinsale has nothing on you. Guys fantasize about chicks like you for the majority of their pubescent lives. Your tumblr, whatever form, is ridiculous."

Lola sits up with a start and quickly takes inventory of the preposterous hospital gown she wears, just to make sure none of her newer assets are showing. When she is satisfied, she looks at Stark. "What is a… tumblr?" Stark turns his head and gives her his best scheming smile.

* * *

Thor, Heineken in hand, sits on the tailgate of Fury's black Silverado. Steve approaches him carefully, attempting to keep it casual. The both of them are out of uniform at the moment. It is a good opportunity to strike up a chipper conversation. Thor hasn't said a word to him since they arrived.

"Hey," Steve greets with something like a wave.

Thor turns his head and fixes him a wintry leer before he redirects his attention to the blue mesas in the distance. Steve's confidence fizzles out. "Hello Captain."

A warm gust of wind swirls dirt around Steve's feet. He shoulders up against the bed of the truck, chewing apprehensively on his lower lip. "You, um… You want to have those words now?"

Brusquely, "No."

Steve nods, giving the god the old thumbs up and then thumbing back towards the base. "Right. I'll just… Yeah." He is about to leave when he hears a rolling rumbling sound. Thor is chuckling.

"Captain," Thor prompts. Steve chances a glance at him, met by Thor's broad, blithe grin. He raises the beer bottle in a toasting gesture. "Thank you."

Nervously, "For what?"

Thor shrugs, his smile mellowing out. "I would not know where to begin, my friend."

* * *

Lola tears her eyes from the portable rectangular device between her fingers. "So, let me see if I understand this rubbish. Correct me if I do not use proper terminology. I have a sea vessel-"

"A ship," Stark corrects.

She tries again. "A boat-"

"No. A ship. Like, the short version of _relation_ship."

Lightbulb. "Oh. I see. I have a ship with Thor-"

"Thunderfrost," Stark says, lounging in bed and staring at the ceiling. She appears vexed. "That ship is called Thunderfrost," he clarifies.

Lola continues warily, "Natasha."

"Blackfrost."

She frowns. Deadpan, "Yourself."

"Ha!" He flashes an oversize grin. "Frostiron."

Lola glances back at the cellular device and scrolls down. "Clint."

"Frosthawk."

Lowly, "Bruce."

"Frost_hulk_." He shrugs.

"… and Steve."

Tony pops his lips. "…"

Lola is surprised when he does not chip in with an epithet for the pairing. She blanches in astonishment, almost offended. "Steve and I's _ship_ does not have a _name_?"

Stark cringes and spins his hand through the air like a turning wheel. "Not officially."

She frowns and repeats, "The only truly pertinent pairing as it pertains to me now does not have a name?"

"Oh, the irony, huh? It's a topic of some debate. No one can quite get it right. Funny enough, most people ship Steve and me."

"_You_?" she reiterates, sounding insulted. Stark gives a suggestive bite to his lower lip and waggles his eyebrows. Lola masks her blush with a scowl and purses her lips. He grins at her shamelessly. "Is there anyone I do not have a ship with?"

Stark takes a moment to reflect. "Not in the Avengers. Then again, I think that's true of all of us."

Lola's eyes widen as she stares at the small screen, scrolling down. "Some of those illustrations are quite graphic." Her brows knit together. "Steve and I should have a name."

"Well, feel free to pitch it. No one can seem to agree. The Supers fan base is huge. It's great publicity." He chuckles blithely, kicking his heel up to cross his legs at the knee. While Stark basks in the glow of fame, Lola is still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that she has... mortal fans.


	14. Episode 14 Epilogue

[I apologize for this. At the moment, it is unlikely that I will be able to continue with this fic. I may fill in the missing pieces later in extra added scenes if I find the time. I did not want to leave you hanging for much longer. Again, I sincerely apologize.]

* * *

_**Two days later…**_

The last battle is well underway.

"Special delivery," Widow announces over the com link, just before Lola drops from air lock into the center of the super hero ring. Captain America is grateful for his mask when he feels the heat in his cheeks. She is dressed in dark greens, somewhat reminiscent of Loki's customary attire save that the slits in the sides are high enough to expose the bare skin of her upper thigh above her tall leather boots. She stands from her crouch, sweeping her hair back over her shoulder. Hulk turns and roars into her face, spittle flying in all directions. Lola cringes and braces herself.

When he stops, she promptly sticks her finger in his face. "We will settle this at a more opportune moment!" Hulk growls at her and slams his fist into the ground, every muscle in his body wanting to lash out and pummel her into oblivion. Lola, ignoring Captain America's wide eyed stare, looks around. The Cerael are advancing from all sides, marching towards their intersection with a single goal in mind. Her mind races. Suddenly, "Hit the hydrants."

"What?" Rogers asks.

"HIT the HYDRANTS," she snaps. Iron Man raises his arm and launches a blast at one fire hydrant. Thor hurls his hammer at another. Captain America flings his shield at a third. Hulk picks up a sizable piece of rubble and chucks it at a fourth. Soon, the entire intersection and the four branching streets are drenched in water. Rogers looks to Lola again, startled when he sees the change in her appearance, her course blue skin riddled with snaking lines and her eyes glaring red. "On my mark." The four somewhat apprehensive Avengers face their respective streets, readying their weapons, Hulk baring his teeth. Captain America steels himself. Lola kneels and plants her blue hands on the asphalt. She closes her eyes, drawing from a tremendous amount of power she previously ignored. The air suddenly grows cold.

"Getting a little stiff over here," Iron Man warns with a suggestive grin.

A glacier erupts from Lola's hands and races over the streets, instantaneously freezing the already super cooled enemy soldiers in place. She leaves thin trails for Captain America and Thor. The glacier continues to comb the streets, eventually slowing when the water grows shallow and the expanse is too great to for the spell to swallow. The trails begin to taper off. Her arms shake slightly and she grits her teeth against the immense exertion. "Go," she prompts tensely.

The four Avengers surge forward. Iron Man launches into the air and torpedoes down his street, blasting the creatures to bits. Thor's hammer sails forth and shatters body after body, Captain America's shield having a similar experience. Hulk careens through the streets, half slipping and sliding about as he smashes through the Cerael. Captain America catches his shield on the rebound as he dashes down the road. A Ceraelian ship darts out from the alley. "Woa-woa-woa-Woah!" He veers onto the ice and ducks into a skid to avoid it. Iron Man zips out of the same alley, bearing down on the aircraft. He gives the Captain a quick salute on the way past.

"Now it really is like Christmas," he says over the link. Rogers gives a sidelong smile until he notices that the ice is beginning thaw. He makes quick work out of the other frozen fiends.

* * *

It is over. It is finally over.

And if any of you are wondering what became of our heroes… Well…

* * *

Director Fury opened his own karaoke bar, where Clint bartends and DJ Darcy gets to download as many Itunes tracks as she wants to. Bruce leads an anger management class on weekends and a self-empowerment seminar every Wednesday evening. Thor introduced Bruce to Sif, which seems to be going just swimmingly. Dr. Selvig finally got to live his childhood dream when Thor took him to Asgard for the wedding of the Millennium. Odin and Fury had many one eyed matters to discuss. Princess Jane Odinson still fervently insists on everyone calling her Jane. Meanwhile, all of the Warriors Three have taken a shinning to Darcy, who is receiving more love letters and edible tokens than she knows what to do with. Tony and Pepper are expecting their new baby, one they can take equal credit for. Clint finally jumped on the bandwagon and moved in to Stark Tower, which has recently been renovated and converted into Avengers Tower. And Natasha finally got up the nerve to ask Agent Hill on a date.

Pepper, resplendent in a floor length gown of white lace and ruched silk, holds Tony's hands, his reactor glowing brighter than ever under his tailored suit. Jane, who keeps fidgeting with her shorter magenta gown, is still having trouble adjusting to her high heels and relies on Thor to keep her from teetering over. Lola, her long hair pinned back in a cascade of spirals and tiny white flowers, stands in a fitted tuxedo gazing into Steve's eyes. Being that Loki would never be allowed to return to Asgard, and would probably be put to death should Odin discover his whereabouts, Thor insisted on having a second wedding. And during this event, in the interest of efficiency, which is always top priority for the team, there is more than one nuptial matter to solve.

Tony, Steve's Best Man, Pepper, Jane's Maid of Honor, Jane, Pepper's Maid of Honor, Thor, Lola's Best Man, Steve, Tony's Best Man, and Lola, Thor's best man, stand in pairs before the altar. Meanwhile, Natasha, Lola's Maid of Honor, stands in the front row beside Maria. As the pastor leads them through the vows, Rogers cannot suppress the surge of pride inside him. He jumps the gun and kisses Lola, dipping her backwards. And as Lola throws her arms around his neck while the pastor finishes up, she cannot suppress the happy tears that squeeze out of her eyes. Her tale has a happy ending after all.

* * *

[Thank you all for your support in this endeavor. It would not have been possible without that.]


End file.
